Malcolm and Hoshi: The Missing Scenes
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: A series of mostly short R/S Missing Scenes, one from each episode, but ends at 'Terra Prime'. This is dedicated to all my long-suffering beta readers, and to Alelou, who proved it could be done! Rating is an average, and reflects occasional use of bad language and some smut. Some chapters later on may be 'M' Rated and will carry the appropriate warning.
1. Broken Bow

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"Gosh, isn't she a beauty?"

The words Travis Mayweather had reverently breathed while the two had been approaching _Enterprise_ in the shuttle echoed in Lieutenant Malcolm Reed's head when he caught sight of the dark-haired woman entering the Mess Hall just as he was finishing his lunch. She was young, slender and struck him as slightly exotic, like some rare and lovely orchid.

He watched her unobtrusively as she selected her meal – tea and fruit – and as she sat down at a table close to his. The single pip at her collar told him her rank, and having studied the latest updates to the ship's personnel records he could take a guess at who she was with a fair confidence of accuracy: Ensign Hoshi Sato, the ship's communications officer. She looked a little lost and nervous, but if he was right about her identity, this was her first trip into space, so that was hardly to be wondered at.

Recollecting that his fixed interest in an attractive member of the opposite sex could be construed as unprofessional and inappropriate, he withdrew his gaze and reviewed the events of his morning. He'd been down to Earth, trying to instil some sense of urgency into the members of the R&D department who seemed to regard it as completely unimportant that the _Enterprise_'s armaments were nowhere near completely fitted and ready to begin testing. Some of the parts weren't even on _board._ They were promised, but he'd had ample experience of what promises produced. He could only plead, threaten, and ultimately hold his breath and hope.

The friendly young helmsman had approached him and introduced himself as they waited for the shuttle. Although he was startled at being spoken to, having been lost in his own anxious thoughts of the expected degree of success from his vigorous efforts to chivvy along the delivery of the parts he was going to need, he'd responded with what he hoped was an appropriate mixture of reserve and cordiality. During the flight he'd had little more to do during the conversation than listen and nod occasionally; Mayweather was a chatterbox, albeit an entertaining one. By the time the shuttle was brought on board, Reed knew almost everything there was to know about his new colleague's history and disposition.

He himself had already been aboard for some days and knew his way around enough to take the ensign on the tour and introduce him to the people they'd be serving with. He'd left him on the bridge, making the acquaintance of the helm that would be his responsibility as soon as Captain Archer gave the order to get under way. Despite having been aboard for several days, Malcolm could fully sympathise with the awe that had been in Travis's voice as the ship came into view, motionless in the docking bay. The newest in the fleet, with the most up-to-date technology Starfleet could provide, _Enterprise_ truly was a sight to behold. Serving on her would be a privilege.

Well. Some aspects would be rather less a privilege than a penance.

Her chief engineer definitely fell into the latter category. 'Keep yer shirt on, Loo-tenant,' he mouthed sarcastically. _Oh yes, Mr Tucker, I'll be happy to keep my shirt on when the ship comes under fire and I'm expected to repel boarders with six canisters of bloody valve sealant. I suppose if the worst came to the worst I could always put an EV suit on and go stand on the hull and throw the damned things. Thank you very much for that evidence of your concern for the ship's safety._ He rolled his eyes in disgust at the memory.

He'd done his homework on the ship with his usual meticulous care. As the Head of Security he had access to the personnel files of all the officers and crew on board except the captain, and he approved of the staff he'd been given: all experienced, good people who he felt would make an efficient team. He'd been able to appoint his own seconds, and was happy with the two he'd brought along; one came recommended by people whose judgement he trusted, and one he'd worked with before. As far as paperwork went, he was happy with the way the situation looked.

As for the way the armaments looked, however...

Talk about a balls-up! His staff were going to have to finish building half of the damned systems after they left spacedock. And Mr 'Keep-Yrr-Shirt-Awwwn' Tucker was the man he was going to have to rely on to help him. Oh, bloody hell. He scowled in the direction of Engineering. Of all the senior officers in all the ships in all the universe he could have got saddled with, he had to get a so-laid-back-I'm-virtually-horizontal redneck who couldn't even pronounce _Lieutenant. _Not that any damned Yank pronounced it properly: _Lef-_tenant!

Three days to reach Qo'onos. Three days, to bring to full operating efficiency a weapons array that, if _he_ was any judge, was so far behind schedule that they wouldn't have been anywhere near finished by the time the ship launched even if it had still been on her scheduled date of next Thursday. The flagship of the fleet!

Well. It seemed that he was going to have his hands full for a while. But even if he had to frog-march Mr Keep-Yer-Shirt-On into the Armoury every now and then to commandeer his attention, he _would _get it fixed. Keeping this ship and her crew safe was his job, that's what he'd been hired for, and that was what he was going to do. No matter who didn't like it.

He picked up his PADD and checked it again, making sure his schedule was accurate. The last member of his staff had arrived just before the ship had left Spacedock, and he'd ordered them all to assemble for an official briefing at 1400 – he meant to make that a daily event. His department was going to be run with military efficiency. He was going to start the way he meant to go on.

* * *

_Oh, this is the biggest mistake of my life. What am I doing here?_

She sat down at the table in the Mess Hall, took the translator out of her uniform pocket, put it down on the polished surface and glared at it. _And you didn't help any._

She'd let Jonathan Archer beguile her on to his ship and into his crew with the lure of being the first human to learn to speak Klingon. She hadn't bargained for having to speak it in a critical situation in Sickbay before she'd hardly started to grasp the basics, with the captain showing his frustration with her all too clearly and the Klingon bawling nonsense of which neither she nor the translator could make sense. At least she'd been able to derive a little comfort from Dr. Phlox's opinion that the patient actually hadn't been _talking_ any sense.

And as if the debacle with the translator hadn't been bad enough, Sickbay had been invaded by hostile aliens. It had been as much as she could do to keep from screeching with fright as the flashlight picked out the red-clad figure clinging to the ceiling like some monstrous spider. The fight had ended with the alien dead, but the Klingon had been snatched away. Captain Archer had not been pleased, which was hardly surprising. The Vulcans had never believed that humans were ready to venture out into space, and they would make the maximum use of his 'incompetence' to prove their point.

Oh well. At least she wouldn't have to struggle with this stupid translator again for a while. Hopefully she'd have time to work on her own skills before they met up with any more Klingons. That was, if she was still on board ship by the time they found one. So far she'd hardly made a great impression!

Bitterly, she took a gulp of her tea. Unfortunately she hadn't realized it was still boiling hot, and as her brain reacted to the pain, the hand still resting on the translator pushed in reflex and the machine shot out from under it and off the edge of the table. Paralysed with horror, she watched it go. It was already temperamental enough, and if it fell on the floor and broke...

_"Howzat."_ The slight, dark-haired man who was seated at the next table had been seemingly immersed in his PADD, one of several he'd brought with him to study. Nevertheless his hand shot out like a striking snake and snatched the translator out of the air. He gave it a cursory glance and turned to hand it to her. "I didn't know throwing these things was recommended in the user manual."

She blushed. She'd been introduced to him the day before, and immediately noticed that his accent was unmistakably English. The captain had mentioned they had a Brit in charge of Tactical. Her immediate impression had been of cool, armored reserve; the way he'd reacted to her professed worry about frostbite on the Bridge while he'd been checking out the electronic connections between his Tactical station and the comm receivers later on had been a little ambiguous, in the shadows between humor and sarcasm.

His tone now held the same ambiguous quality; he didn't seem to be exactly amused. He had a narrow, intense face with gray eyes under level black brows. His expression wasn't much easier to read than his voice.

"I'm sorry, sir. It was an accident. I scalded my mouth." She indicated the tea a little nervously. "I'll take more care of it in future."

"You should take care of both of them, Ensign. We'll need a linguistics expert, and the translator will need you to update it as we go along." The gray eyes appraised her coolly over his own cup. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm a little nervous," she admitted frankly.

"You haven't been on a mission before. It's only to be expected." His words were gentler than his tone. "It gets easier."

"I messed up big time trying to talk to that Klingon this morning," she said glumly. "I've been trying to translate what he said, but it's not easy."

"The captain must have every confidence in you, or you wouldn't be aboard. I'm sure you'll manage. At least you only messed up the translation; I managed to miss the fact the ship was about to be boarded." A shadowy, slightly bitter smile flitted across his mouth. "It seems we both have some 'room for improvement'."

He stood up. He wasn't tall, or particularly physically impressive but he was compact and graceful. And he didn't come across as the friendliest guy on the ship, but at least he'd made an attempt to make her feel a little better. She was going to be on this ship for five years; the sooner she started to make friends, the better.

"If you need any help, you know where I am," he said quietly. Their stations were almost directly opposite each other on the Bridge. She'd hardly have to shout to get his attention.

"Thank you, sir." She watched him walk out of the Mess Hall.

Perhaps she hadn't made such a big mistake coming here, after all.

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	2. Fight or Flight

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"So you still haven't decided what you're gonna do with Sluggo, hey?" Trip dropped into the chair opposite Hoshi and grinned. He took up a fork and began attacking his dinner with relish. "Maybe you could let the Loo-tenant use her for target practice," he suggested with a big wink.

"The way the weapons test went this morning, she wouldn't be in any danger if you did." Travis evidently hadn't noticed the brooding presence at the table behind him, but when the comm officer kicked his ankle and pulled a warning face he caught on fast, and hunched over his plate with a guilty expression. _"Maybe he didn't hear me,"_ he whispered.

"I heard you perfectly well, Ensign," the dry English voice intruded. "Perhaps you'd like to volunteer to be my next practice target instead of 'Sluggo'."

"Aw, we've got plenty of time to get it right," said Trip breezily. "The torpedoes are workin', aren't they? So we're not exactly helpless."

"As long as we make sure we only run across unpleasant people who don't move while we're trying to hit them, let us get to virtually zero range before we fire, and don't have the appropriate shielding on their hulls, yes, we'll be absolutely _fine_." On which Lieutenant Reed got up and stalked out of the Mess Hall, every line of his back eloquent of righteous British wrath.

"I have to say I was a bit scared this morning, when that torpedo took a deflection and came back at us," said Hoshi in a low voice, so as not to be overheard by other diners. "And I don't think the captain was particularly happy either."

"I guess if he'd wanted us to throw a boomerang he'd have asked for one." It was safe for Travis to come out with that now that the man responsible for it had 'gone walkabout.' The other two guffawed.

"I don't know why he didn't keep us in the asteroid field and let us have a bit more practice, though," he grumbled when the laughter had died down. "It's not as if we've had that much to do for the past two weeks. At least shooting was_ useful._ And I don't think it would have taken that long to refocus the infrared scanners."

"Hell, it's been borin' enough cruisin' along listenin' to our own warp signature for two weeks. Sittin' on our butts for a whole day while Wild Mal Hickok plays around with his six-guns would just about finish us off." The hilarity exploded again.

"I don't think we're treating him with the respect he deserves," said Hoshi, mopping her eyes with her napkin. "He's got no comeback."

"His torpedoes have got it all. That one sure came back at us fast enough this morning," gurgled Travis. Possibly T'Pol had been the only person on the bridge who hadn't gotten a bit round-eyed as the missile established a new and unintended trajectory after the glancing impact with the asteroid at which the Tactical Officer had aimed it and sped menacingly back towards the ship. Even Captain Archer hadn't quite managed to maintain his magisterial calm as the torpedo loomed larger and larger in the viewscreen.

"I'll bet his face was a picture." Laughing, Trip shook his head. "But as a matter of fact, he's got a point. I guess we really should've been further along with the weapons systems before we left Spacedock. I'll go down to the Armory this afternoon and see if he'll need any help gettin' the phase cannons installed."

"Thank you," said Hoshi quietly. She wasn't quite sure why.

"My pleasure." The blue eyes were lightly quizzical. He patted her hand. He really was astonishingly good-looking, and she could acknowledge that fact without being affected by it in the least.

But Lieutenant Reed...

Talk about trouble in armor-plating. His gaze felt like it came fitted with cross-hairs as standard. She'd been long enough in Starfleet to have learned how to tap into the rumor mill, and it had plenty to say about Lieutenant 'Commitment-Phobe' Reed. Not that she was looking for commitment. Not on a five-year mission, where you were stuck with your ex if it went down the tubes. And especially not with a guy who came complete with his own personal fortress.

But now and again she thought she'd caught a glimpse of, well ... someone different. Someone kinder. Someone she could even describe as nice. And while he wasn't in Trip's league when it came to good looks, he was attractive when he smiled. The extreme rarity of that expression simply made it more noticeable when it occurred. But then, considering he was responsible for the safety of a ship that hadn't got half its weapons in place, maybe he didn't feel much like smiling right now.

Maybe she might try to get to know him. He was the only English guy on the ship; maybe he felt lonely sometimes. She knew what 'lonely' felt like – at least they'd have that in common, if nothing else. Maybe she might even get to make him smile occasionally.

_Don't go there, Hoshi._

What the hell.

She'd always enjoyed a challenge.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	3. Strange New World

Marvellous.

The captain's taken a landing party down to a planet even the Vulcans don't seem to have discovered, and where's the security officer?

Left behind on board ship. Watching the weather.

Gosh. That weather front might turn nasty any minute. Good job I've got the torpedoes loaded ready, I'll scare the pants off it with those if I have to. I mean, none of my highly trained staff have the intelligence to watch a meteorological display and interpret it _and_, if necessary, contact the landing party and say something bright like, 'Hey, did you notice the sun's gone in?'. After all, it isn't even as though they'd have to use a communicator. We have a comms officer in place for things like that.

A very pretty comms officer too. I suppose on a strictly unofficial level, being left on board does have its advantages. I can occasionally take a break from mentally composing reports to Starfleet explaining why I, the Head of Security, was sitting up here on my arse cloud-watching while the captain, the executive officer, the chief engineer, the helmsman and the entire landing party were lost without a shot being fired, and borrow a moment to admire Hoshi Sato.

OK. I've had my doubts about her. Especially when we were investigating that alien ship and she screeched down the com link; those things are sensitive. My ears were still ringing an hour after we got back to the ship. But it wasn't the nicest surprise in the world, I'll admit that. And she probably didn't bargain on being sent on away missions into ships full of corpses when she signed up.

Why am I making excuses for her? I ought to be staying objective. Mapping the dangers; that's my job. Though I'm beginning to get the horrible feeling that pointing out danger to Captain Archer is a bit like pointing out a Botticelli to a bat.

Pretty? Well, yes, she is pretty. Very pretty, if I'm honest, especially when she smiles. She obviously gets on with Travis – I've heard the tales about the prank war the two of them have started. I'll ignore it for now, though if it compromises ship safety I'll have to step in. They'd better not get carried away and start looking at me, though. I am not a suitable target for pranks. They can forget that little idea if it occurs to them. Maybe Mr Keep-Your-Shirt-On Tucker may have that mentality, I haven't.

Although I could always...

No. I'm not even going to think about it.

Clouds, Malcolm. The captain left you here to keep an eye on the nasty clouds.

OK then, sir.

Clouds it is.


	4. Unexpected

I'd known something was up.

Rumors were flying round the ship, of course, but some of them were just too outrageous to be anything like the truth. In a confined environment like _Enterprise_ everyone gets to know everyone else's business sooner or later, and it was common knowledge that something was up with Commander Tucker.

The way he ate, for one thing. The man's not usually in Travis's class when it comes to sinking food, but these days he was just leaving him standing. And his normal sunshine had gone behind a cloud big time. Now Trip's no saint, and he can grouse and curse with the best of them, but normally once he's got whatever it is off his chest he comes round again and goes back to being the engineer we all know and love. At least till the next crisis in Engineering. Anna keeps promising to install a swear box, but he'd be bankrupt in a week.

But he'd almost stopped swearing as well. He'd gone quiet. _Really_ quiet. And he wore a strained expression when he thought we weren't looking at him. Not to mention wearing casual clothes lately when he was on duty. Loose casual clothes, at that. If he'd been a woman, the rumors would have been going round the ship at warp speed; as he manifestly wasn't, rumor was left without a leg to stand on, let alone a functioning warp drive.

I was pretty sure that the captain and T'Pol knew what was up with him. Captain Archer occasionally got this sort of smirk on his face for no particular reason, though other times he just looked bemused. T'Pol, on the other hand, was just radiating Vulcan Disapproval like there was no tomorrow. She could hardly look at poor Trip without getting this withering expression on her face – which he very evidently understood, because he blushed and looked defiant every time he intercepted it. They had a whole gamut of expressions, and by means of keeping my head down over my comm station, and watching through my eyelashes, I managed to catch most of them. I could guess at what they meant, but I wasn't any nearer understanding what was behind them.

I'd have bet good money that Malcolm was no wiser than I was. He'd definitely picked up on the by-play, because that's the sort of thing he's trained to do, and I sometimes caught the same puzzled look on his face as there probably was on mine. I didn't waste my time asking him, because I was virtually certain he'd say it was none of our business. Which it probably wasn't, but that didn't mean I wasn't curious. And he was too, whatever he refused to let on. Because all of a sudden it became desperately important we track down that Xyrillian ship whose engines Trip had repaired recently, and nobody was saying why. Even when Malcolm asked outright he got no answer, but then considering Trip fairly ran off the bridge and puked his guts up a few minutes later perhaps his mind was on other things.

And then this morning, right in the middle of an encounter with a ship full of rather unpleasant Klingons whose captain was definitely not delighted to make our acquaintance, the big secret came out.

Well, perhaps that's not quite the phrase. After a certain amount of diplomatic floundering that had us puzzled almost as badly as it did the Klingons, Trip finally blew his cover. Lifted it, actually, with this great big resigned expression on his face.

We kept our faces straight somehow, though Malcolm did mouth 'Blimey!' and the movement of the muscles in his jaw suggested he was having to practically chew the inside of his cheek to stop the grin from taking over. And after it was all over there was a sort of dignified stampede for the heads, so we could all laugh our socks off over poor Trip's plight. Even the captain disappeared into his Ready Room with suspicious speed.

Well, I mean. _Pregnant_. No wonder T'Pol was giving him the Arctic treatment. He's over on the Xyrillian ship now, presumably getting his 'problem' sorted out. At a guess, we won't be seeing much of him for the next few days when he returns, at least till the furor's died down a bit and we can look at him without seeing a guy some alien babe knocked up and left in the lurch. (Jeez. Did I just think that?)

Phew. End of the shift at last. Travis has stayed to brief his replacement on some navigational issues, so it's just Malcolm and me in the turbo-lift.

The silence is ... well ... pregnant. My mouth twitches every so often, despite my efforts to keep it straight, and now and again I steal little glances at him. He sedulously doesn't look at me. But I can see those jaw muscles flexing again, and all of a sudden he gives this little suffocated snort.

And that's all it takes, and next moment we're both in paroxysms of laughter. He leans against the wall and guffaws; I don't think I've ever seen him so human, so uncontrolled. He punches the paneling with one fist and almost howls with mirth. I'm folded up with it; I squeeze my stomach and gasp for breath. Every so often we try to stop, but then one or the other of us cracks up and we're off again.

Thank Heavens, nobody's waiting on E Deck when the turbo-lift comes to a stop; they'd think we were crazy. We stagger out of the lift, whimpering with laughter, wiping the tears off our faces.

"The stupid bugger," gasps Malcolm, trying to get himself back under control. "Trust Trip bloody Tucker to get himself shagged."

The unguarded expressions coming from the oh-so-proper Brit set me off again, this time at least partly with surprise. He glances sideways at me a bit ruefully, realizing he's let his cover slip, and then he starts to laugh again too. It's nice to think he feels he can trust me enough to let me see just a little way past his guard.

"Well, I'm off for a shower. If I don't see you in the mess later, Hoshi, I'll see you tomorrow." He smiles at me. It's a bit shy, but it's genuine. As if he's starting to see me as a friend, as well as a junior officer.

He's still chuckling as he walks off down the corridor towards his quarters. I'd imagine he'll still be grinning over it when he finally tries to get some sleep; I know I will. Poor Trip. This is going to take some living down.

Well, that idea of a shower sounds like a good one, and I turn towards my own quarters. A brief thought flits through my mind of what he'd do if I sneaked into his after him, and I almost laugh again; I can imagine him grabbing for anything that would protect his modesty and quoting regulations against fraternization. Yes, and he'd probably blush too. I can imagine Malcolm blushing.

Malcolm Reed, my friend.

I wouldn't have thought so when I first came on board, but I could get used to that.


	5. Terra Nova

The music must have lulled him, somehow, into a half-waking doze, though the sound of it had continued to float uneasily through his dreams.

Malcolm woke up again and groaned. He _hadn't_ been dreaming. He really was in a bloody cave, held captive by troglodytes. And his leg _hurt._

He was never likely to sleep properly; not in these circumstances, with a suspicious young man armed with a MK-33 projectile weapon keeping guard over him from a couple of metres away. He'd already found out what the weapon was capable of: the impact of the bullet in his thigh had felt as though someone had hit it with a mallet. Phlox's ministrations had improved his situation in that respect – the doc's hypospray had reduced the pain from a heart-stopping jangle to a dull, ever-present ache that only turned fierce when he imprudently moved the leg. Most of that, of course, would be because of the bullet still inside it. As soon as that could be got out (he sighed soundlessly at the thought of another spell in Sickbay), he'd be fine. Well. He'd be _better._ And he'd never complain again about resequenced meatloaf.

He eyed the bowl of half-cooked digger meat with revulsion. He'd eaten some of it, partly out of bravado because the guard's scorn had stung him and partly because he knew that he had to keep up his strength. And back in his Section 31 days he'd eaten worse things than that when it was a choice between eating and going hungry. Nevertheless, even then he'd been at a disadvantage among his fellows because, along with a list of allergies as long as his arm, he had a finicky gut. It was now becoming apparent to him that he still had one. Digger meat – especially half-cooked digger meat – evidently didn't agree with it.

Great. He had a bullet in his leg, his bladder had signalled 'full' an hour ago, and now his guts were giving him what-for. Just bloody wonderful.

With some difficulty he adjusted his position, wincing. If the worst came to the worst he could tip the meat out of the bowl and put it to other uses. Presumably these aliens had some kind of functioning urinary system, so they'd know what he was doing; after all, he had asked a while back about using the lavatory, even though he'd tried to be polite about his requirement. Knowing his luck, though, he'd find out too late that they had some kind of taboo against emptying your bladder while you were being held hostage, and the punishment involved the forcible removal of the offending organ.

No. On second thoughts, he could hang on for a bit longer. Quite a _lot_ longer, if he really had to.

Maybe he'd been a bit too polite though?

He shifted again, using the movement as cover for checking that the UT in his utility pocket was still present. He'd have preferred to take it out and check that it was still working, but it didn't need prescience to guess that his guard would take extreme exception to his trying to take any unknown object out of concealment. If their places had been reversed, the first indication of any such attempt would have had his finger on the trigger. They'd shot him once. At a guess they wouldn't hesitate to do it a second time, and the next might not be in such a relatively non-life-threatening place. Although he'd lost blood from the wound, which was still leaking sluggishly into the dressing Phlox had applied to it, the bullet evidently hadn't pierced any major blood vessels. Insofar as the word 'lucky' could apply to any set of circumstances which contained the fact that he'd been shot, he'd been lucky.

Well, the UT was still in place. And it seemed to be functioning well enough, in fact it had picked up the natives' speech with extraordinary ease. Their odd verbal expressions were no doubt a consequence of the lives they lived down here in the flickering twilight of their crude lamps' battle against the eternal darkness of the tunnels. Why on earth, he wondered, would anyone choose to live down here when there was the whole planet up above them in the sunlight?

_Good job Hoshi's not down here._ She definitely wouldn't care for these dark, musty tunnels. In an effort to distract himself from the boredom and discomfort of his circumstances, Malcolm started to imagine himself back on the ship, running a weapons diagnostic at his console on the bridge. Unfortunately it reminded him of part of a conversation he'd overheard when he was doing that very thing the day before. Captain Archer had strolled over to the comm station and started to talk to Hoshi about the results from her students' exams, back in Brazil. Naturally, although she'd left her place at the University she still kept in touch with the people there and had an interest in her ex-pupils' success. That was only to be expected, and the conversation had been simply part of the background until something about the quality of the captain's voice had touched an unexpected chord.

It had been something of a surprise to learn that a starship captain would have taken time out from the almost innumerable tasks just prior to launch in order to personally travel half the length of a continent to recruit a comm officer. However, at the time he'd had far too many issues of his own to deal with to spare it more than a startled glance; it was, after all, hardly surprising that given the importance of this mission, Captain Archer should want to recruit the best officer available for the job, though the fact that this one was teaching in a university as opposed to queuing up for the post had to be surprising in the extreme. However, the slightly familiar tone of their exchange now – and on duty, at that – offered the suggestion that there might have been more to the situation than met the eye. Perhaps it hadn't been just the best linguist in Starfleet whom the captain had been keen to recruit to his staff. It certainly appeared that the two of them had previously had some kind acquaintance.

On the surface, there was nothing at all improper about that. Archer and Tucker had been friends from way back, according to gossip (and gossip was often an extremely fruitful, if not always accurate, source of information for security personnel). There was no suggestion that Trip's appointment had not been deserved; accent or no, there was nothing wrong with his qualifications for the job. He certainly couldn't pick a decent shirt, but he could fine-tune a warp engine better than anyone of his generation. If there had been anything between Jonathan Archer and Hoshi Sato at some time in the past, that was no reason why he shouldn't make use of her linguistic talents now – and to give him credit, he'd certainly shown no signs so far of anything that could be considered favouritism.

So why had that unexpected evidence of some prior acquaintance between the two of them suddenly made his fingers momentarily clumsy on the tactical console, put the strings of calculations awry? Remembering it now, he frowned. He'd better keep a sharp eye on himself, too. Entanglements on board ship were forbidden, and there was a good reason for it. Not to mention that he'd a past strewn with failed relationships that warned him never to get entangled in another. If he felt any affection for a woman, the kindest thing he could do for her was to keep her at a distance. Rochelle had told him that clearly enough the day she left him. Ever since, women in his life had fallen into two distinct categories – those he slept with and those he worked with. _And that's the way I'm keeping it,_ he told himself harshly.

He was used to loneliness; at some point over the years it had become part of him. So why now did it feel suddenly cold, almost as though the defensive shell he'd painstakingly constructed around himself was not so much a fortress as a tomb?

_Get a grip, Reed. _He deliberately shifted his leg. The wave of renewed pain was almost welcome. That, at any rate, was a reality he could deal with. Nothing like a surge of honest-to-God physical agony to put less tangible troubles firmly in their place. As the sweat from it broke out on his forehead he caught the first faint sound of a shuttle engine, and he let out a long unsteady breath of relief. His ordeal was almost over; soon now he'd be back on board, and everything would be back to normal again. Except that he'd have to keep a vigilant eye open for a threat he'd not expected to have to face.

Himself.


	6. The Andorian Incident

"Can't someone else do it, sir?" asked Hoshi anxiously.

Malcolm swallowed his impatience with some difficulty. "It's not rocket science. You're not exactly a novice, after all."

"But this one's different. I'm not sure I can handle it."

"It's just a different size and shape, that's all." He exhaled. "It won't bite you, you know."

"But what if I do something wrong?"

"You have to try something new sooner or later."

"Well..." She eyed it apprehensively. "Are we sure it's working?"

"I tested it myself half an hour ago. It seemed to be OK to me."

"How exactly did you test it?"

"How do you think I tested it? I just put something onto it and let rip."

A pause.

"I'm really worried about this."

"There's nothing to be worried about." It didn't need a linguist to detect the note of slight anxiety behind that assertion.

"Well, other people worry about it. I've heard them talking."

"You think I'd make you do something that wasn't safe?"

"Accidents happen, sir. You might easily end up in the wrong place, and that would be catastrophic."

"Well, if you're very careful and remember to do exactly what I've told you to, there shouldn't be any problem."

"But if I forget something, there might be a problem." She crossed her arms defensively.

He sighed. "Well, yes, there might be a bit of a problem. But I'm sure it wouldn't be anything we couldn't work out."

"I just don't want to set you off before you're ready to go, or something stupid like that."

"If we're both really careful I'm sure that won't happen."

"I'd feel so much better if I was doing this with Commander Tucker."

"Unfortunately, Ensign, Commander Tucker isn't available right now, so you're stuck with doing it with me. But if it all goes to plan, you can do it with him another time."

"I'm not sure that's really cheered me up, sir. Unless I press all the right buttons for you, I don't suppose he'll let me do the same thing for him."

"Your confidence isn't doing much for me either. I'm going to be at the business end of this, you know. Will you stop worrying? I won't tell him if you don't get it right the first time."

"But what if it hurts?"

"We'll worry about that if it happens. If I can put up with it, I'm sure you can. I'm sure it won't hurt for very long. And it'll be worth it."

"Well – if you're absolutely sure, sir." She swallowed. "I'm sorry if I sound so nervous, but the captain never said anything about doing things like this when he talked me into coming on board."

"You have to be prepared for any eventuality on a starship, Ensign. I'm sure the captain is fully aware of your abilities. I wouldn't ask you to do anything he wouldn't approve of. You never know, you might find yourself trying it on him one of these days."

"We-ell... if you put it like that, sir..."

And with a look of intense apprehension, Hoshi stepped up to the transporter console and prepared to operate the controls.


	7. Breaking The Ice

"Oh – excuse me!"

She hadn't been paying enough attention to where she was going, and as she rounded the corner of the corridor, Hoshi bumped into the person coming in the opposite direction.

They both staggered and PADDs went flying in all directions. He must have been carrying more than a dozen.

"I'm so sorry, Lieutenant!" she said, mortified. "I'll help you pick them up!"

"Don't worry about it. They've developed problems anyway, I was taking them down to get diagnostics run on them." Reed smiled faintly as he began scooping them up. "I don't suppose it's done any permanent damage."

"I hope not." She carefully stacked the ones she'd retrieved on top of those he'd collected and was now holding again, but as he didn't immediately resume his errand she risked a grin. "You and Travis sure had some fun on that comet this morning."

"Ah. You mean the comet that the shuttle fell into, almost entombing us in an icy grave." His tone was solemn, but there was a twinkle in the gray eyes. "Yes, I wouldn't have wanted to miss that."

"I _meant_ the snowman, sir."

He coughed. "You mean the snowman that it wasn't particularly tactful of me to add pointed ears to with a shipload of Vulcans watching."

"Oh. The captain's mentioned it."

"He came down to sickbay to check we were OK. Just a few bruises." He shifted his left shoulder and winced a little. "And yes, he did mention the snowman."

Hoshi grinned. "I think you enjoyed your day more than he did his. Trip told me about the fun dinner they had with Captain Vanik. And that was after they recorded the school report and Trip got the question about poop."

"One of the constants in an ever-changing universe: children's obsession with scatology." He grimaced. "Thank God for comets, if that's what I missed."

"I hope he wasn't too mad at you," she said, pausing before she went on her way; her errand wasn't particularly urgent, and this surprising moment of contact seemed somehow worth prolonging. The fact that they'd collided seemed to indicate they were heading in different directions, or she'd have hoped to continue the conversation as they walked together.

"It fell short of putting it on my record." He gave a wry smile. "And Travis got to see snow, and I got to blow something up. That was worth a little ticking off."

She tilted her head to one side as it occurred to her that Travis hadn't been the only one who enjoyed the snow. Somehow Lieutenant Malcolm Reed hadn't come across before as the sort of person who went in for such innocent delights as they'd witnessed that morning. "But you were the one who built the snowman."

Unmistakably, he blushed slightly. "It took me back to the fun my sister Maddie and I used to have at home when it snowed," he said. "Our house had a massive garden. We used to ..." He caught himself up. "But I'm sure you don't want to hear about it."

"I'd like to, some time," she said gently.

The blush intensified. He looked very British. "Perhaps. Now I'd better get these PADDs sorted out, or half the armoury staff won't be able to keep track of the weapons test results."

He walked away, and Hoshi turned to watch him go. Now that was something she hadn't expected: that glimpse of a childhood memory he evidently cherished. There were unsuspected depths behind that stiff façade. His voice had softened infinitesimally on the mention of his sister. Evidently the ship's security officer wasn't quite the solid ice block that he preferred people to think.

Slowly but surely, just as the sunlight had done to the surface of the comet the shuttle had been resting on, _Enterprise_ was thawing him out


	8. Civilization

He hadn't meant to say anything, knowing he was wasting his time, but when he reached the shuttlebay and saw the landing party preparing to leave, all dressed up in the Akaali gear, he changed his mind. The captain and Trip looked as though they were going to some kind of fancy dress party; T'Pol seemed resigned; Hoshi, on the other hand, was looking downright nervous. Her pale anxious face under the fake forehead ridges hardened his misgivings. It was no good. He had to say something, at least try to wave a warning flag, before this whole affair slid towards disaster.

"Sir, may I have a word with you in private?"

Archer had been just about to step into the shuttlepod. The hazel eyes cut to him a little impatiently. "Is it important, Malcolm?"

"Yes, sir." He lifted his chin and met the captain's gaze somewhat defiantly. _Yes, it bloody well is important. You hired me to give you security advice and I'm going to give you some whether you like it or not._

Archer sighed. "Trip, I'll be with you in two."

Reed swallowed his annoyance at the implied dismissal of his concerns. After all, it would take him less than two minutes to say what he had to say, and in all probability get it written off as usual. At a guess, his commanding officer already knew what he was going to say and had rejected it out of hand.

He followed the captain out of the shuttle bay into the corridor and adopted the appropriate parade rest stance. Archer leaned against the wall, his whole body language indicating suppressed irritation.

"Well, what is it that couldn't wait?"

"Sir. I have a duty to express my concerns when in my professional opinion the safety of the ship or its personnel are being compromised. And this is one of those times."

The captain sighed again. "Malcolm, these are simple people and I plan to be really careful. We're even taking weapons just in case we run into trouble."

"The Akaali may be simple people, sir, but those neutrino emissions point to the presence of people who are not natives and are in possession of technology that far exceeds anything in this planet's developmental stage." _Bloody hell, I'm starting to sound like T'Pol. _He hurried on to more familiar ground."In my opinion that strongly constitutes a threat to any members of the crew who go down there and makes the presence of at least one member of security strongly advisable." He exhaled, keeping it just below the threshold of audibility. "With respect, sir, as the head of security, I think it would be more appropriate for me to be protecting the landing party than manning the scanners up here. There are other crew-members at least as able as I am to interpret scanner data and keep you informed."

"Malcolm, I need to leave a bridge officer in charge of the ship."

"Certainly, sir. But again with respect, I believe a security escort would be more in keeping with the level of risk than taking along your chief engineer. Sub-commander T'Pol would surely be able to carry out any necessary inspections of whatever we find." He refrained from mentioning that if the worst came to the worst, even he actually knew one end of a reactor from the other; that might be over-egging the pudding.

Archer considered briefly, but then shook his head. "If a hostile ship suddenly appears when we're down there, _Enterprise _would be minus her tactical officer. I don't like the idea of that."

_Well, sir, I'm not too keen on the idea of the top three members of the ship's chain of command wandering into an unknown environment without a single member of security tagging along, but I suppose that's beside the point._

He already knew he'd lost the battle, but as the captain pushed off the wall and turned back to the shuttlebay he made a last desperate protest. "If you're worried about the ship's safety, sir, I do have deputies. I trust their abilities absolutely." His mouth had gone dry. This was as close as he'd ever come to arguing against the orders of a superior.

"So let's compromise. Have one of them standing by to beam down if we run into trouble. But in the meantime I want you here to protect the ship in my absence."

_Compromise be damned. In other words, 'I've heard you out, Malcolm, now you run away and play like a good little boy.' _But he recognized the futility of further argument.

He followed the captain back into the shuttle bay and watched in silence as the landing party got into the shuttle; Hoshi glanced back at him once, almost as if she too was wishing he was coming with them for protection, and the look fuelled his helpless anger. He didn't wait in the control booth to watch them leave, but walked rapidly back toward the turbo-lift. Yet again he had scanners to watch on the Bridge. Bloody wonderful.

He'd done all he could. But one of these days, Archer's complacency was going to bite them in the arse.

It really, really was.


	9. Fortunate Son

"You tried to get Captain Archer to _change his mind?"_ Hoshi stared incredulously at Travis over the rim of her mug of green tea.

The helmsman gave her a rather embarrassed grin. "Sure, why not? At least he heard me out."

"But he didn't agree with you."

"I guess not. And he's got good reasons for what he's doing. Humans _should _have standards of behavior. We carried out all those repairs on the _Fortunate_, and they've used them to go looking for revenge. That makes us accessories, if nothing worse."

"Pity we didn't upgrade their cannons while we were about it," muttered Lieutenant Reed darkly. To all external appearance he'd been absorbed in the content of his PADD; he probably wouldn't even be seated at their table if the Mess hadn't been so crowded, and he certainly hadn't seemed to be paying attention to the conversation.

"You don't agree with the captain?" asked Hoshi, startled even more. It seemed so unlike him to criticize the orders of a superior officer.

The lieutenant raised his head. His expression was slightly chilling; his stare was flat. "I've had experience with Nausicaans."

"We had a run-in with them once on the _Horizon,_" said Travis. "They usually just size up how much trouble you'll be, and if they think you'll fight back they beat it. My father had it covered, most times."

"But not every time." The lieutenant picked up his mug of tea and sipped from it, watching the other man over the rim of it. It was a casual enough remark on the surface, but Hoshi, with her extraordinary ear for subtext and tone, suspected that it wasn't casual at all.

"No, there was just that one time we ran into trouble. A couple of them ganged up on us, got a lucky hit on our propulsion. Luckily, another freighter just happened to be close by and helped us out. Man, that was some good shooting. My dad still talks about it."

Malcolm's mouth was still hidden by the cup, but the long lashes dipped briefly. "Lucky for you they had a good shooter on board."

"Most cargo ships have at least two crew who can handle a cannon," said Travis cheerfully. "You don't go looking for trouble, but you've got to be prepared for it coming looking for you."

"It always pays to be prepared." Reed set down the mug and picked up his PADD again.

"Sounds like that's your motto, Lieutenant," remarked Hoshi, watching him closely.

"It's certainly one of them." He didn't look up. His tone had become remote. He couldn't have signaled more clearly that his contribution to the conversation was over.

"And we'd better be prepared for some trouble when we catch up with the _Fortunate._" The helmsman's bright grin dimmed. "They won't want a starship telling them what they can and can't do."

"I'm sure the captain will be able to talk them round." She put a consoling hand on his arm. "After all, it wouldn't be very good for freighter traffic in general if they started an all-out war with the Nausicaans."

Lieutenant Reed stood up abruptly. His eyes glinted at her, and for a moment she felt sure he was going to say something; but even as she watched, he got himself back under control. The gray gaze was hooded again. "I'd better get back to the bridge," he said softly. "For when we catch up with our warmongering friends on the _Fortunate._"

"_Lucky for us we've got a good shooter on board_." Hoshi looked at him squarely, but she might as well have been looking at one of the bulkheads. His expression told her nothing.

"Might be lucky for everyone concerned." If he'd glanced even for an instant at Travis she'd have known. He didn't. He held her stare for just an instant longer, with the faintest suggestion of irony in his slightly lifted brows, and then he picked up his tray, took it to the disposal area and walked out of the Mess Hall without a backward look.

"Every now and then, that guy gives me the creeps," remarked Travis, finishing off what was left of his lunch.

"Yes. I know what you mean." She stared for a moment longer at the door through which the lieutenant had vanished, and then shook her head and picked up the apple from her plate. Nevertheless, her thoughts were not so easily distracted. It was evident that Reed bore a grudge against Nausicaans; she wondered how and when that had come about. At a guess she'd be wasting her time asking him about it, though. It was far too likely that she'd come up against that impenetrable stare, and something in it chilled her. The armory officer's stiff, British, slightly prissy façade occasionally slipped just a little, leaving one to wonder what exactly lurked behind it.

She wasn't sure she wanted to know.


	10. Cold Front

'On a pilgrimage to The Great Plume of Agosoria'!

Lieutenant Reed sat in the captain's chair on the bridge and fumed.

OK. They were out here to meet new species. That would probably include, of necessity, inviting them on to the ship. Though he could imagine (and sympathise with) Chef's reaction when faced with the airy demand to 'prepare something' suitable for a species they'd never encountered before, and whose dietary preferences were a total mystery; for all they knew, these guests might ingest iron filings through the navel, or something equally bizarre. The artist in charge of the ship's food supply had a somewhat mercurial temperament, and at a guess he'd have filled the air with obscure Gallic imprecations that probably even Hoshi would have had trouble translating.

But they'd only just _met_ these people, and had no justification for trusting them. Their claim to be on a pilgrimage to the 'Great Plume of Agosoria' could be a handy cover for absolutely bloody _anything. _Feeding them in a safe and relatively controllable environment was one thing. The idea of them being given virtually free run of the ship was quite another, and one both so alarming and so exasperating that the lieutenant had difficulty sitting still in the chair to which he'd been temporarily promoted.

He'd pre-empted the captain's reckless hospitality by quietly arranging for security personnel to be on standby. Several were present in the social gathering in the Mess Hall, inconspicuously armed on his orders. But it would be very difficult for them to remain incognito if they accompanied the tour that Archer was apparently determined to give his guests. The captain would very quickly pick up on their presence and, at a guess, take the first opportunity to quietly dismiss them. Then, afterwards, there'd be a lecture for him on diplomacy and 'How Not To Offend Harmless Pilgrims' – complete, if he was particularly unlucky, with _another _gibe that he'd watched too many science fiction films.

Imagining this as clearly as though it was happening in present time, he shifted irritably where he sat. _I'm here to protect the bloody ship, not pander to a load of visitors' sensibilities. _Now, how did one phrase that diplomatically?

He glowered at the tactical readouts, which he'd routed to the display here while he was in temporary residence. That starboard targeting sensor was giving him a headache. He'd fixed it for the present, but he needed Trip to look at it to make sure there wasn't some underlying problem. But Trip, of course, would be busy – showing a crowd of total strangers the engine room, complete with its classified Starfleet technology. On the captain's orders, of course.

In an effort to take his mind off his anxieties, he glanced aside towards the comm station. Hoshi's head was industriously bent, presumably over the translation matrix on which she spent so much of her time, but he'd have bet a year's pay that that hidden face had a grin on it. He knew perfectly well whose was likely to have been the serpentine voice of temptation that had brought Travis slipping to an illicit moment in the captain's chair. Catching the young helmsman in the act had been as inevitable as it was amusing, though he'd taken care not to let his amusement show; he was beginning to understand them both enough to have wondered as he'd left the bridge how many seconds it would be before somebody's bum was where it shouldn't be. It was virtually inevitable that the bum in question would be Travis's. Hoshi was far too astute to put hers on the line.

Very hurriedly Malcolm rerouted his train of thought. He wasn't in a good position to contemplate the idea of female anatomy. The tactical station was handy for concealing the occasional unprofessional indiscretion, but here in open view it was a no-go. He'd occasionally wondered irreverently how on earth the captain managed to maintain his dignity full time with two delectable female officers in his almost immediate line of sight.

At that moment the turbo-lift door hissed open and the second of those delectable female officers emerged on to the bridge. Perhaps her nasal numbing agent had been overpowered by the assorted smells of the visitors, or perhaps she'd just had enough of socialising. Whatever her motives, he was silently glad to hand back his borrowed authority so he could get back to concentrating single-mindedly on something he was getting to be really expert at.

Worrying.


	11. Silent Enemy

_Well, you certainly made a balls-up of that one._

Malcolm glumly resumed his seat and stared at his two PADDs and at the contents of his plate. Oh, that's what he was eating ... ravioli. He'd been so busy concentrating on the latest updates of the progress on the warp cannons that he hadn't even consciously made a choice of what to eat, just picked up a plate and started to consume what was on it automatically. If he'd had the choice he'd have skipped lunch and stayed in the Armoury, but when the point arrived that the complaints of his empty stomach were distracting his staff in a job that needed total concentration, he'd had to give in.

He looked across in some bewilderment to where Hoshi was now taking a seat beside Ensign Cutler and engaging her in spirited conversation. He hadn't had the slightest idea why she'd taken the seat opposite him, and to start with her attempt to engage him in conversation had been slightly irksome, distracting him from the work that was occupying all of his thoughts. If they were to get these cannons in place and operating before they reached Jupiter Station, everyone involved had to give it everything they had, and that didn't allow time for idle chit-chat. Then, in the midst of his polite but slightly abstracted attention to her chatter, he'd made what had seemed, at the time, to be the logical assumption that she was making a pass at him. Her invitation to make a dinner for him in her quarters could hardly be understood in any other way, however astonishing such an offer might be.

He wanted to believe that if he'd been less distracted by the issues of the phase cannons he'd have made a more graceful fist of handling the rejection that he felt was the only appropriate response, given their respective stations on the ship. It wasn't a very optimistic belief, because he'd learned the hard way that his ability with relationships was far, far below his ability with weapons; still, he was genuinely sorry that he had, yet again, evidently managed to mess up a situation with a member of the opposite sex. And of all people, it had to be Hoshi, with whom he'd begun to feel he was establishing some kind of careful accord. At a guess, that was properly banjaxed* now. She'd think he was a right self-obsessed prat...

For once, he was actually grateful for Trip's arrival at that moment. Somewhat to his own surprise he actually found himself wishing that they had the kind of friendly relationship that would permit him to mention what had just happened; if they had, he was sure that Tucker would come up with some sort of consolatory banter that might help him feel a bit better about his own incompetence. Unfortunately that wasn't the case. But a discussion about the progress of the phase cannons came a close second by way of distraction, and the fact that Trip was bringing three PADDs of his own was a clear signal that the engineer was at least as obsessed with the current issue as he was himself. The blue eyes were concerned, and almost before he'd plumped into the seat he was talking, gesturing at the schematic displayed on the screen of the topmost PADD.

"Malcolm, we're comin' up against a real problem here..."

_Mr Tucker, someone is finally speaking my language. _At least he wouldn't have to worry whether Trip was making a pass at him. The pride of both Engineering and the Armoury was at stake, and as the heads of their respective departments they were united in just one aim: those cannons were going to be built, installed and working _long_ before the ship reached the Sol system, whether Captain Archer realised it or not.

He pushed the problem with Hoshi firmly to the back of his mind. It wasn't unimportant, but it would just have to wait.

"Yes, I'd been wondering about that. I was thinking last night that if we installed an inverter just _here_..." He explained his idea, taking recourse to the diagrams he'd uploaded to his own PADD yesterday evening, and Trip listened carefully, nodding once or twice.

It was gratifying to see the relief spreading across the other man's face as he came to an end.

"Malcolm, we just might make an engineer outta you yet." Trip stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll get back to Engineerin' and get right on it."

"You haven't had any dinner either," he called as Tucker strode towards the door.

"Haven't got time. Bring me a sandwich when you come back, will ya?"

"As long as you don't drop crumbs into my phase cannons."

"Oh sure, I can just see myself explainin' that to the guys on Jupiter Station. 'Gee, fellas, it would'a been workin' fine if I hadn't accidentally dropped half my lunch in it." Trip rolled his eyes as he thumbed the door control.

"Perhaps it's not very likely." He laughed and returned his attention to his ravioli. By this time, however, it was practically stone cold and distinctly unappetising. The slightly wistful thought of hot enchiladas crossed his mind, but he'd eaten enough to quiet his growling stomach for the time being, and he should be getting back to the Armoury. Those cannons wouldn't assemble themselves.

He picked up his mug of tea and tossed the contents down his throat, grimacing. That was cold too. Still, it was wet and it contained caffeine, which was all he really needed.

"Sandwich," he muttered to himself, walking to the chiller cabinet. "He might have told me what he wanted. It's a right pain in the arse when you don't know what somebody eats."

* * *

* 'Banjaxed' = cursed or ruined. Slang word of Irish origin.


	12. Dear Doctor

"OH!"

Hoshi had thought the observation lounge was empty. The lights were off; the room was still and silent. But when she walked in, wanting some time on her own, a British voice spoke dryly out of the darkness.

"I don't want to give you a heart attack, just to let you know I'm here."

For all the speaker's professed desire not to cause cardiac arrest, the effect wasn't far from it.

"What are you doing, sitting here all alone in the dark?" she gasped. It probably wasn't the most respectful form of address to use to a superior officer, but at that moment she was too taken aback to care.

"Thinking."

Now that her eyes had begun adjusting to the low light cast by the thick cluster of stars outside she could see him, a shadowy figure sprawled in one of the easy chairs. His hands were thrust into his pockets. His air of negligent ease was a marked contrast to his customary upright formality.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to disturb you. I'll come back another time," she said a little nervously.

"I'll be leaving myself in a couple of minutes. I assure you, Ensign, I'm not going to force my unwelcome attentions on you if you stay." The irony was mild, almost self-mocking. The color rushed up into her face.

"Perhaps it's not a good idea anyway."

"That's your decision. But if by any chance you need to talk about anything, you know where I am."

She'd been halfway through a turn to the door, but this sudden change of tack stopped her in her tracks.

"What makes you think I need to talk about anything?" she demanded.

"Well, I don't know. A lucky guess?" His tone was almost flippant, but it grew more serious. "You've been down on that planet. It must be pretty terrible down there."

"That's putting it mildly." She hesitated; then, after a moment, she came back, and took a seat quite close to his. "But we went down to do blood tests on the second species – the Menk. They aren't affected by the disease. Phlox was hoping we could find some reason why they're immune, perhaps some kind of antibody that we could replicate and use to help the Valakians."

"Logical," said Malcolm, nodding.

She sat back in the chair, staring at the stars. They were not interested in her complex emotions. "It's … it's not that I don't _care_ about the Valakians. They … when they're not dealing with this disease, I'm sure they…."

"Probably perfectly decent people." His voice was non-committal. "But perfectly decent people can act very strangely when they're afraid."

"But the Menk." She paused, trying to gather her thoughts. "They were so … nice. Just really … kind. Gentle. And they didn't _mind_ the way the Valakians treat them. I don't even think they _notice._"

"You have to consider how rare it is for two humanoid species to have evolved in parallel on a planet." She heard him shift slightly in the seat, as though turning to look at her carefully. "If they hadn't developed some kind of a mutually acceptable relationship, one would have destroyed the other long ago."

"I'm not sure that what they have is 'acceptable'." She shut her mouth tightly.

"Steady, Ensign. Be careful of applying human values to a non-human civilization. It may not be a relationship that would suit humans, but that doesn't mean it has no value. It's probably allowed these Menk of yours to _survive._"

"To survive because they're _useful!_" she flared. "Like … like cows, back on Earth. Kept in pens. Kept under control. Not given any rights of their own!"

"The temptation to ask what a cow would do with 'rights' is virtually irresistible." A dark thread of humor had entered his voice. "But let's grant your basic premise, that these Menk should have equality with the Valakians. Do they have the qualities that would allow them to demand equality? To enforce it? To live with the casualties? Because there would be casualties." His tone hardened. "Let's suppose you have the power to give them what you think they should have. To break this 'symbiosis' of theirs. To put them on an equal footing with a species who've 'oppressed' them for years, who'll be terrified of the repercussions, who'll regard them as a possibly deadly threat. You'll give them war instead of contentment, Hoshi. You'll give them death instead of peace. You'll give them dread instead of security – dread that whatever settlement they eventually fight their way to is only as safe as the will of _the others_ to accept it. And at any minute the balance of power may shift, and then there's another war, and another, and another, and another, and maybe it'll never end until both sides blow themselves to Kingdom Come."

He paused. "Equality is a marvellous thing," he went on after a moment, more gently. "God knows everyone should have the right to self-determination. But if you were to show your Menk what you want them to have, and explain what it could cost … Hoshi, I wonder, I wonder if they'd think it was worth the price."

"They ought to be free," she said in a small voice.

"So they should," he said sadly. "But if you were offered the choice between being free and being happy … which would _you_ choose?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He rose, soundless and graceful, and left the lounge without another word.

She sat on in the dark, wondering.


	13. Sleeping Dogs

"Seems longer than a day since the last session, sir," said Hoshi with a smile, lifting the phase pistol out of its case.

"It certainly does," agreed Malcolm. He set the target generator to the wall and activated it. "We'll see if you've made any progress, shall we?"

"I wouldn't hope for too much."

Rather to her surprise, he returned the smile. The expression sat a little oddly on his face; she was so used to seeing it serious. A half-smile would flicker across it sometimes, and she'd seen him laugh without restraint after Trip's misfortune with the Xyrillans, but this was perhaps the first time she'd seen it genuinely lit with animation.

"Hoshi, I don't think you realise how much progress you've made already."

"Sir?" She dropped the muzzle of the pistol and looked at him in bewilderment and some concern. Perhaps his cold had given him a touch of fever.

He fished a paper tissue out of one of his pockets and blew his nose, but the smile was still in position when he re-emerged. "Yesterday. You actually suggested detonating six torpedoes practically underneath us when we were in a Klingon ship with a compromised hull."

She frowned. "Ye-es..."

Holding her gaze, he perched on one of the torpedo launch platforms and leaned forward. His stare was now serious, though the corners of his mouth were still smiling.

"You wouldn't have made that suggestion when we set out, Ensign. You wouldn't have even thought of it." He made a small gesture with the hand holding the PADD. "And if either the Sub-Commander or I had suggested it, I very much doubt you'd have accepted it without argument."

"Seemed to me we didn't have any choice," she said quietly.

"Oh, we had choices. We could have taken the safe route, and probably died. I doubt whether anything less than all six would have done the job. But given the way the hull integrity was failing, it took courage to take the chance of subjecting it to a shockwave of that magnitude at that proximity. Frankly, if you hadn't suggested it I'm not sure I would have."

_"You _wouldn't have?" Her eyes opened wide at this admission.

"Probably not," he said ruefully. "But for God's sake don't go telling everybody that."

"I won't." She blinked at the floor. This admission was going to take some coming to terms with.

It honestly hadn't occurred to her that she'd done any more than state the obvious. If they'd wanted to survive, they were going to have to take the chance; with the ship collapsing around them, their remaining lives were measured in minutes. Nevertheless, it was all too obvious that the detonation might easily complete what the pressure of the gas giant's atmosphere had already started. She'd remembered all too clearly the lieutenant's earlier demonstration of what they'd be reduced to in the case of a hull breach: something the size of his clenched fist. The creaking and groaning of the ship's superstructure had told them all that its end was imminent as it sank further and further into the planet's ever more compressive grip. Desperate cases call for desperate remedies, that was all.

She looked up at him again. It occurred to her that it must have taken some courage to tell her that – to sacrifice his pride in order to boost hers.

"I was just living up to the example I've been set here," she said quietly. "We're all part of the same team, right?"

He nodded and stood up. "I'm glad to be part of it too, Hoshi," he said softly. Then he straightened up again and deliberately assumed his formal stance again as he brought the PADD up to start the target hologram program. "Right. Now let's see if you can live up to my example with a pistol and improve your hit to miss ratio above fifty per cent this time."

There was a definite twinkle in his eyes, and she felt bold enough to return it. "You never know, I might get around to doing better than you one day."

"When it happens, I'll buy you a drink, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that, Lieutenant." And, smiling, she raised the pistol muzzle. "Let's get shooting."


	14. Shadows of P'Jem

"So it was all down to Shran that you got them out in one piece!" exclaimed Hoshi. "He sounds such an interesting guy!"

Malcolm grunted. "Bearable in small doses, I suppose."

"Malcolm and I didn't exactly cover ourselves in glory," grinned Trip. The three of them were walking down the corridor to the gymnasium, having met up accidentally en route. "We'd hardly got down there before they got the jump on us. That's why he's feelin' so sore about it."

Reed scowled, and Hoshi giggled.

"Andorian's such a fascinating language. I've been studying it in my spare time," she went on. "I'd love to get a chance to practice it with an actual Andorian."

"Ask the Cap'n. Seems like he's on such good terms with Shran, he might even be able to set ya up with a date!"

"I'm not sure 'My debt is repaid' qualifies as a vow of eternal friendship," growled Malcolm, whom Trip noted with interest appeared unaccountably irked by this suggestion. "People like Shran are always better in the abstract than in the concrete, in my experience."

"Oh, I don't know. A little rough 'round the edges, maybe, but I'd say he's a decent kinda guy when you get to know him. You could do a lot worse for yourself, Hosh'." They'd reached the gym, and Trip started one of the treadmills up and dropped his towel across the support bar. "That's if he's not already spoken for. I'm sure we could make inquiries if we happen to run into them again."

"If we have any bloody luck whatsoever we'll never come within ten light-years of them for the rest of the voyage." Malcolm started cardio exercises. For some reason his eyes were fixed on the punch-bag, and his demeanor suggested it was in for a busy evening.

Trip hid a grin.

"And he's not bad-lookin', if you can ignore the antennae," the chief engineer went on blandly. "Intelligent. Probably a good conversationalist when you get to know him. Got prospects too, I'd guess."

"Sounds almost like you're keen on him yourself, Commander," said Reed acidly.

"Nope. Just tryin' my hand at a little matchmakin'." He smiled angelically. "If Hoshi here's lookin' for some good relationship material –"

"Whoa, slow down!" she cried, laughing. "If we could get the ship to match the speed you're taking this at, we'd have gone past Warp 10 by now! All I said was that he sounds a really interesting person!"

"Interestin' – handsome – dashin' – what's not for a lady to like?"

"How about 'aggressive', 'suspicious', and 'Andorian'?" snarled Malcolm.

_Tsk, tsk. Gettin' a little riled here, aren't we, Loo-tenant?_

Having discovered the sore spot, Trip pressed it a little harder. "Oh, I'd guess that when he's on his best behavior for a lady he'd be quite the gentleman. Kinda like a 'paranoid suspicious English armory officer' could be if he put his mind to it," he added in an aside that was not quite inaudible.

Hoshi put her head down and stifled a giggle. He looked across at her, quite satisfied with having planted the seeds of an idea in her mind, even disguised as a joke.

Malcolm, on the other hand, was glaring across at him like a pair of phase cannons. The word the lieutenant mouthed – silently, in view of a member of the fairer sex being present – was not only quite easy to lip-read, it was verging on extreme disrespect to a senior officer. However, he couldn't really claim that he hadn't earned it, and he felt it very fair payment indeed for the fun he was going to have.

Five years had felt like a hell of a long time when they set out. If he read the situation aright, however – and he was fairly sure that he did – then for Malcolm Reed it was going to feel like a whole damned eternity.


	15. Shuttlepod One

"Shuttlepod secured, sir. Bringing her aboard now." The crewman's voice from the shuttlebay held both relief and apprehension.

"I'll be right there. Get Phlox to bring a team from Sickbay." Captain Archer rose from his chair with alacrity. "T'Pol, you're with me."

Hoshi met Travis's worried gaze as their two senior officers left the bridge. The viewscreen was empty now, where moments before it had displayed the helpless shuttlepod still ploughing through space on nothing more than whatever velocity it had achieved before the explosion, plus any additional help from the shockwave. It still had many of its systems intact, but the oxygen tanks were all but empty and the life support heating system was terrifyingly low.

There had been no reply to her increasingly frantic hails. The sensors were showing two life signs though. Faint, but still present.

How _could _the two men have got themselves into this much trouble? What had happened to the oxygen tanks? Why was the shuttle so desperately cold?

The answer to the fourth question – 'what would have happened if T'Pol hadn't happened to catch sight of that tiny, far-distant explosion that was the shuttle's engine being detonated' – was horribly apparent. And if the captain hadn't made the immediate decision to up the ship's speed to maximum in response to her report, it wouldn't have been a rescue they'd be carrying out in thirteen hours from now, but the recovery of a tomb.

"I hope they're both okay." She spoke into an anxious silence. "I wish we could have gone down there too."

"Might have made it a bit crowded. But I'm sure the captain will give us the news as soon as he can." The helmsman's tone was comforting. His expression, however, suggested that he was talking to himself as much as to her.

Losing two heads of department in a single incident would be a severe loss to the ship's operating efficiency, as T'Pol would doubtless express the matter. But the months had brought the two officers into a more personal relationship with the rest of the crew, and it was as individuals as much as heads of department that Hoshi was thinking of them now.

Trip, obviously, had engineering skills that were virtually irreplaceable, as well as a zest for life that was infectious. His department adored him, and half the women on board swooned over his accent and his Southern charm. Tall, fair, and ebullient, he met people head-on with an air of regarding every stranger as a friend he hadn't yet been introduced to. She couldn't imagine that he had an enemy in the world.

Malcolm was his antithesis, in coloring, build and outlook. It was all too apparent that in the tactical officer's universe, every stranger was an enemy who just hadn't taken a pot-shot at him yet. Beside Trip he must always be cast into the shadows, but she suspected that was, very much, the way he preferred it. His department ran with absolute efficiency, just as Trip's did, but although he inspired confidence and loyalty he seemed not to have either the knack or the will to create anything warmer in his subordinates. Even when she encountered him off duty, where technically speaking she could use his given name, she still found it came more naturally to call him 'sir'.

Nevertheless, he intrigued her. Although he was less physically imposing than Trip, she'd seen during their time in Decon that he was well-toned and muscular. On the other front, the glimpses she'd had of what lay behind those chilly barriers had suggested a gentler, kinder personality than the one he showed to the world. It dawned on her now that if anything happened to him she'd miss him far more than she'd ever have imagined when she first came on board and encountered those cool, analytical gray eyes.

Travis was speaking, jerking her out of her reverie. "...the shuttlebay camera up on the viewscreen?"

"What? Sorry?" She came back to the present with a jolt.

"The shuttlebay has a security camera," he repeated patiently. "We could put it up on the viewscreen."

"Why didn't I think of that!" Her fingers flew to the relevant area of her console.

"Because you're too worried?" He grinned a little slyly at her.

"Of course I'm worried. They're two of our most senior staff." She kept her head down, annoyed with herself for unaccountably blushing.

"Hmm." He turned his face forward again as the picture from the internal camera flashed up on to the screen.

The shuttlebay had just finished repressurizing. They watched the captain and Phlox hurry up to the door of the shuttle, the doctor passing Archer a glove to prevent his fingers from possibly being burned by the cold of the controls as he entered the command codes.

The door responded immediately – evidently whatever had gone wrong with the little craft, that part of its electronics was still functioning. Shrugging aside Phlox's attempt at detaining him, the captain leaped into the shuttle and immediately began coughing in the foul air inside.

"... breathing," he gasped, kneeling beside what looked horribly like two bodies on the floor.

Phlox's sigh was audible as he followed him in. It would only take a moment or two for the bay atmosphere to mingle with the shuttle's and make it breathable, if not pleasant.

The pause after that, while the doctor activated his medi-scanner, seemed to go on forever.

"Their core temperatures are dangerously low, and the low oxygen content of the atmosphere has caused temporary unconsciousness, but if we act quickly they should make a full recovery." He gestured to his waiting assistants, and within seconds the two officers were being carried carefully out of the shuttle to the gurneys that had been brought down from Sickbay.

Hoshi input the instructions to the camera to zoom in close. Malcolm's body was lax in the hands that held him so carefully, his face as pale as that of a corpse. If she hadn't heard Phlox say otherwise, she'd have thought he was already dead.

"Might want to check the commander out as well," suggested Travis. There was something suspiciously like a knowing smirk on his face.

"I'm just getting to him!" She turned the lens hurriedly. Trip didn't look any better than Malcolm had. They'd both wrapped themselves tightly in the emergency insulation blankets, but those could have been of limited use in the freezing vacuum of space. She hoped neither of them had suffered frostbite; in their jobs, loss of fingers could mean the loss of their careers, at least as far as space exploration went.

The gurneys were already well-supplied with warm blankets. The two men were bundled up in these and whisked away to Sickbay, where doubtless the appropriate treatments for their condition would be applied. The important thing, thought Hoshi with relief, pulling the view back to standard, was that they would both survive.

"If I didn't know Vulcans don't believe in luck, Sub-Commander, I'd say it was damned lucky you were looking out for them," said Captain Archer, clapping T'Pol on her shoulder.

"_They_ were fortunate, Captain. _I _was simply carrying out my duties." She turned away and went inside the shuttle, doubtless to begin the inspection that would tell them what had happened to the craft. Doubtless the term 'micro-singularity' would be uppermost in her mind. It had been mentioned with some regularity on the bridge during that desperate race towards the shuttle.

"Ouch," whispered Travis, wincing.

Archer shook his head and turned away, smiling. "I'll be interested to see what the report has to say. You never know, you might be in line for a Nobel Prize after all." And he left the shuttlebay, undoubtedly on his way back to the bridge. Even he would probably realize that it was a bit early to be pestering Phlox for a progress report.

"Okay, the fun's over." Hoshi cut the connection to the camera. Once more the viewscreen was filled with stars.

"Might be interesting to get hold of the shuttle logs," suggested Travis. "You're the comm officer."

She glanced across at him. His expression was one of bland innocence. She wasn't sure where his horns were hiding, but his tail was probably tucked out of sight inside his coverall.

"No," she said firmly. "The captain has to have them. And I'm not going to be tempted to sneak a listen, so don't even go there."

"Your loss." He winked and turned back to the helm.

Well, okay. She _was _curious. Tempted, even. Assuming the shuttle's log facility hadn't gone with the comm, it would probably be highly revealing to listen to what had gone on during the hours when the two men had faced the prospect of imminent death together.

But that would be an invasion of privacy that she couldn't justify. Even if they never found out about it – and as comm officer she could make sure that nobody knew the recordings had been accessed before the captain opened them – the memory of that breach of trust would overshadow their relationship ever after, on her side if not on theirs. She would have to review every word thereafter to ensure that no reference to it leaked out. And she knew that dangerous, damaging secrets almost invariably leak out somehow, sooner or later. Curiosity wasn't nearly enough of an excuse to create such a ticking time-bomb; she only had to put herself in their place to know how embarrassed and justifiably furious they would be. It would be the end of two friendships she was only beginning to realize how much she valued.

_Two_ friendships. She repeated the word firmly. They were two good men who were in the process of becoming two friends of hers; maybe even good friends, in time – one of them at least. No more. No matter what Travis thought or suspected. She realized that she really wasn't thinking of them just as officers any more, but as individuals, each vital to the wellbeing of the ship, each a part of the tapestry of life on board, to which she was slowly becoming accustomed.

Interested in any other way in Malcolm Reed? In that uptight Brit, wedded to regulations? Who _would _be?

_Not me, and that's for sure,_ she told herself emphatically.


	16. Fusion

Every seven years!

Malcolm left the Mess and walked back to the Armoury, still shaking his head at the thought. Good grief. No wonder the Vulcans put so much effort into controlling their emotions. His own emotions if he'd been forced to go without sex for seven years at a time would probably have defied description. 'Homicidal maniac' would probably be the closest description for his psychological state.

He'd had to resign himself to long periods of celibacy when he signed up for this mission, but, difficult as it undoubtedly would be, at least that was voluntary. And with any luck they'd return home occasionally, not to mention enjoying the occasional stint of shore leave. In the meantime, however, there were regulations, and regulations set very severe limits on who was allowed to have 'liaisons' with whom on board ship. In the general way, romantic relationships were frowned on, chiefly because they posed so much danger to the effective operation of the ship's crew, especially if and when they went wrong. Not that he held out much expectation of being besieged by prospective lovers from among the ship's company. Involvement with ranks below his carried the danger of fraternization charges, of which he was fully aware and had every intention of avoiding. There were only a few lieutenants of the female persuasion aboard, and most of those were in relationships already; the remaining couple seemed content to keep their distance. He was not especially grieved by any of this. Given the fact that his skill with the emotional side of relationships was something along the line of a ten-tonne wrecking ball, the thought of having to share a starship for the next four years with yet another casualty of his incompetence was not one that appealed to him. He visualised Rochelle in a blue coverall staring reproachfully at him over the pancakes at breakfast, and winced.

The Armoury. At least here he knew what he was doing, which was more than he'd ever been able to say about maintaining relationships. He sighed, and wondered whether it would be worth asking T'Pol to give him meditation lessons. If it helped Vulcans cope, maybe there was something in it after all.

Though there was precious little opportunity of asking her anything at all these days. Ever since they'd docked with the _Vakhlas_, the science officer had been practically invisible. He knew why, of course; he'd been on the bridge when the captain made the suggestion that she spend time on the Vulcan ship, helping to monitor the data that their superior sensors were helping to gather about the nebula. It was (in the Vulcan idiom) a perfectly logical choice. But it was weird that the ship somehow seemed not quite right without her. Considering the captain had made little secret of the fact that he regarded her as an unwelcome imposition – not to mention a right royal pain in the ass – when her presence had been forced on him by the High Command as the price of their co-operation, she had somehow become part of the team. It was noticeable that Archer sometimes looked across at the science station during the day as though expecting her to be there. Even he himself rather missed her acerbic comments. Hoshi worked for hours without so much as looking up from her console, while Travis had virtually become indistinguishable from his. While as for Trip, _he_ was beginning to look downright dismal. Probably missing their daily bickering, even if nobody else did.

Malcolm gave himself an inward shake. He should have kept out of that conversation with Kov, though it had hardly been confidential; practically everybody in the Mess Hall had heard at least one sentence of it. It had just stirred up thoughts that were best left alone. Like the thought that T'Pol's bum really was rather –

He blushed. Had he really blurted that out to Trip back in Shuttlepod One? God, he must have been well hammered. Drinking bourbon on an empty stomach! Exactly what the textbooks told you _not _to do. Why the hell hadn't he had more sense? Not that he'd been thinking straight at the time. The realization that every member of the crew, every person (except Trip, of course) with whom he'd begun to feel some sense of connection, had died in some catastrophic collision with that asteroid, had virtually overwhelmed him. Grief and anger and terror had been rocks on which HMS _Malcolm Reed_ had run aground in a style that in hindsight he shuddered to contemplate. For a while, he honestly thought, he hadn't been completely sane.

And then, beyond hope, they'd heard a voice that he'd thought silenced forever. Hoshi's voice – the voice of salvation. They hadn't been able to reply, but just hearing it had been more intoxicating than the bourbon. _Enterprise _hadn't been destroyed. His family was still safe. He'd had something to be deeply thankful for, even though the realisation that their own demise was still unfortunately inevitable had been given added bitterness by the knowledge that because they had no way of alerting the ship to their plight, rescue would come too late to save them.

Hoshi's voice. He sat down at his desk and stared unseeingly at the PADD in front of him. He'd seen Hoshi at first as little more than a scared young girl, out of her depth here in space and a questionable choice at best as a member of the bridge crew. He'd resigned himself to having to mollycoddle her for the next five years, to having to adjust his thinking to compensate for the weak link that the captain had brought on board for the sake of her linguistic skills.

He wasn't thinking of her in that way now. Nor as he thought of T'Pol, someone desirable but ultimately unattainable. His perception of her was changing, whether he wanted it to or not. He'd been made aware of the danger some while ago, had thought he had enough self-discipline to stay in control of the situation. It was slowly being borne in upon him that perhaps he'd been wrong.

Not that there was a cat's chance she'd return his half-unwilling interest. Why should she?

And even if she did, the rules were clear.

_Fraternization_.

Malcolm put his face in his hands and groaned.


	17. Rogue Planet

"Now, are you sure you have everything?" Hoshi put her head to one side and surveyed the contents of the shuttle.

"Everythin' but my stuff and the food. Guess I'd better go coax Chef into makin' some packed lunches for us. Maybe he might have a few marshmallows tucked away somewhere if I ask real nicely." Trip grinned and ducked out of the doorway.

"I'm a bit surprised he's so keen to try camping again so soon. Especially since this planet's dark all the time, and it has bugs." She sat down in the pilot's seat. "I believe you're looking forward to your expedition."

Malcolm looked up from where he was securing a phase rifle. "Yes, I am, actually. It'll make a pleasant change from checking duty rosters and running simulations."

She turned the chair and looked at the console. "I hope you enjoy yourself."

There was a little silence.

Then she heard the soft footfalls crossing the shuttle. She didn't look up, but her peripheral vision saw him come to a halt beside her.

"Do you have a problem with that for some reason, Ensign?" he asked at last. His voice was perfectly expressionless.

"Not at all, sir." She did her best to make hers equally so.

"If you wanted to make a career out of telling lies, you'd have to do better than that," he said softly. "Tell me what's bothering you."

She did look up at that. He was leaning against the shuttle wall, his arms crossed. His expression was inscrutable.

"It's nothing, Lieutenant," she said steadily.

One corner of his mouth quirked up in a slightly bitter little smile. "You don't approve of me going hunting."

For a moment longer she said nothing, and then her disgust broke through. "I think it's barbaric."

"I've promised the captain that I won't kill anything. I take it you think my promise is worthless."

"Chasing animals for fun – killing them for nothing! I thought we were supposed to have grown out of all that!" She recalled, a little too late, that she was speaking to a superior officer. "I'm sorry, sir. But you asked."

"I explained to Captain Archer that I'm interested in learning how the Eska managed to evade our night-vision detectors. That's a security issue, Ensign, and in case you hadn't noticed, I am head of security on this ship."

"But couldn't you just ask them to show you? Rather than go along with them and help them kill things?"

"I won't help them kill anything." His voice was now perceptibly colder. "I'll watch them and learn. One day someone's life on this ship could depend on my ability to do exactly what the Eska did to me and T'Pol. I'll learn whatever I can, wherever I can, from whoever I can, to help me do my job. Sometimes that includes mixing with people whose values may be very different from yours or mine. And I'm sorry if you don't approve, Ensign, but the bottom line is, I can't afford to be choosy." He pushed off from the wall. "I won't lie to you, Hoshi. Maybe some barbaric part of me will enjoy the hunt; I don't think many men wouldn't, to some degree. But I don't kill for fun. I never have and I'm not about to start now. I hope you can believe that."

Without another word he returned to the rear of the shuttle and started sorting through the baggage again, tightening straps that probably didn't need tightening. She stared at his back, guiltily aware that she'd offended him by questioning the value of his word. But she couldn't reconcile the idea of him taking part in something that Earth's civilisation had outgrown long ago, and indeed it seemed utterly at odds with everything she'd come to believe about him that he would take pleasure even vicariously in the needless death of living creatures.

It was probably fortunate that Trip arrived at that moment, clutching a large parcel of food items; Chef evidently didn't intend them to die of starvation overnight. "No marshmallows, though," he said lugubriously.

"We'll live." Malcolm straightened up. "Besides, sugar attracts insects. You don't want to wake up in the middle of the night and find your tent's full of giant ants trying to unearth your secret stash of marshmallows."

Trip gave an exaggerated shudder. "If we get any bugs in the tent, I'm relyin' on you to shoot them for me," he said.

"Does everybody around here think all I want to do is kill the local wildlife?" demanded Reed rather irritably. "I told you, the bugs are luminous. You can see them a mile away. If any insect is reckless enough to invade our sleeping-bags, I'll bloody well do whatever self-preservation demands. Short of that, unless they're trying to carry out an attack on one of the landing party, tinker with the equipment, or access restricted Starfleet technology, I'm going to leave any bug I come across severely alone. Even slugs," he added bitterly.

Trip evidently picked up on the undercurrents. His eyebrows rose. "Am I interruptin' anythin'?"

"No, nothing. Come on, hurry up and bring your things down. The captain'll think we've got lost."

"Gotcha." He hurried out to start collecting the rest of the luggage. "You _sure _those bugs are luminous?" his voice came back plaintively. "Doesn't sound like much of a survival trait to me."

"I saw one myself." Across the shuttle Malcolm caught Hoshi's eye. His gaze was rueful, a little apologetic, a little mischievous. He wanted to make peace, and she caught at the offer with relief. At her smile, he grinned and looked up at Trip. It was obvious that a little teasing was on the cards, and she joined in the grin.

Commander Charles Tucker was about to get ganged up on.


	18. Acquisition

"They stripped the _Armoury?_" Malcolm sat upright and spluttered with fury. "You should have shot the bloody lot of them!"

"Keep your shirt on, Loo-tenant. It's all back in place. I checked it myself." Trip stretched until his arm joints cracked. "But I daresay you won't take my word for it," he added drily, as Malcolm reached for his discarded shirt with more haste than accuracy as he threw back the covers on his bunk.

"Why the bloody hell didn't you wake me along with everyone else?" demanded Reed, pulling on his socks after he'd dragged his shirt hurriedly over his head. "I'm the security officer, God damn it. I'm the first person who should have been informed!"

"Sure. You were comin' round like the rest of the crew. But Phlox found you'd had an allergic reaction to that gas they used to put us out. He gave you a shot he said 'd make you sleep for a couple more hours, an' I'm supposed to waste my time tryin' to wake you up?" He pointed to the coverall and boots dropped where they had fallen; their presence in this state was the clearest indication that their owner had been virtually out on his feet when he'd undressed, because normally they'd never have been left so untidily. In actual fact Malcolm couldn't even remember being helped into bed, let alone taking his uniform off beforehand. At least whoever had brought him in had left him the dignity of underclothes.

"Are there any _other_ significant items of information I should know before I start?"

"Oh, nothin' much. 'Cept that the captain was chained up, T'Pol flirted with one of the robbers and I married Hoshi."

This was one of the few occasions when Malcolm had reason to thank kindly Providence for his relatively small stature. Had he been as tall as either of his male senior officers he'd almost certainly have stunned himself on the bulkhead over his bunk as he jerked upright.

"All part of the plan, Loo-tenant." Trip was grinning from ear to ear. "Just part of the negotiatin' the cap'n and I did with the visitors."

"NEGOTIATING?" he yelled. "I'd have negotiated with them at the end of a bloody phase rifle! I take it these 'visitors' are safely locked up in the brig till we can get them to the nearest magistrate?"

"'Fraid not." The commander shook his head ruefully, but he was still grinning as he leaned against the wall. "Sorry, Malcolm. The cap'n gave them a good tickin' off and let them go."

"'Let them go'?" It emerged as hardly more than an incredulous croak.

"Well. Not 'til they'd put everythin' back again."

"Give me strength!" He collapsed back on the bunk. "These people drug the crew, break into Starfleet's flagship, tie up the captain, strip the ship like a plague of bloody locusts I presume, hijack our weapons – _MY_ weapons! – steal the women to sell into slavery, presumably intend to leave the rest of us helpless and at the mercy of whichever ship happens to come along next, and the captain lets them GO?" Throughout this litany of outrages his voice rose until it was almost a scream.

"Thought you wouldn't be real impressed," said Trip cheerfully.

Words were insufficient to express his ire. In an ideal world he'd have had a punch-bag handy, but as it was he had to content himself with turning over and battering the hell out of his pillow. It was safer than battering Captain Archer, and the pillow was about as likely to absorb any sense. Halfway through this satisfactorily cathartic exercise he realized that throwing a temper-tantrum like a two-year-old probably wasn't very much in keeping with the standards expected of a Starfleet officer, but that didn't seem a good enough reason to stop.

Finally, however, he ran out of breath and had to.

Trip hadn't moved. He was still leaning against the wall with his arms folded and an expression that suggested the only thing needed to complete the general entertainment value was a dish of popcorn.

"I don't suppose for a moment that any of the rest of you pointed out that that might not be the wisest course of action," snarled Malcolm.

"Aw, you didn't see them, Loo-tenant. Take a look at the security recordings and you'll understand. They were so dumb I think in the end even you'd have just given them a kick up the ass and sent them away." The chief engineer shrugged tolerantly.

"At least I'd have given them that, if only to teach them to give Starfleet ships a wide berth from now on!" He sat up and resumed dressing, still scowling.

"Look on the bright side. At least Hoshi and I got a divorce." Trip's tongue had slipped into his cheek and was pushing it. The blue eyes had become distinctly speculative.

Malcolm's fingers froze on the buttons of his shirt for one betraying half-second that certainly would not have been missed. "That's unfortunate. I was going to wish both you and Ensign Sato very happy." He resumed buttoning.

Damn. There went the grin.

_I'm never bloody going to hear the end of this._


	19. Oasis

There had been silence on the bridge for some time since the landing team had called in to report that they had landed safely and were attempting to enter the crashed ship.

Although Ensign Fletcher had moved forward to take the helm just in case some adjustment of orbit or change of direction might be needed, Hoshi did not know him well enough to engage him in conversation. She missed the easy camaraderie she'd developed with Travis; the helmsman was a fount of anecdotes and jokes, and could be relied on to brighten the dull periods when the senior officers were absent and there was nothing much to do except wait.

Still, even if Travis had been present instead of being down with the landing party, there would have been little chatter today. Lieutenant Reed had the Bridge, and he took his responsibilities very seriously. He did not encourage frivolity on duty.

She glanced across to where he was currently seated in the captain's chair. On these occasions he invariably routed his tactical station information to the display on the arm, but for once he was not reading with his usual concentration. He was sitting back in the chair and scowling at nothing.

"Are you all right, sir?" she asked carefully.

"Ghost stories," he said shortly. "Something about all this doesn't feel right. I'm going to run some checks."

"Is there anything I can help with?"

He paused for a second, and then nodded. "Two pairs of eyes are better than one."

She joined him, and they moved to the situation room, where he brought up the scans of the crashed craft and its surroundings.

"Looks pretty peaceful," Hoshi observed. "And the ship doesn't look that badly damaged."

"No." He stared grimly at the display. "That trader – what's his name – D'Marr – apparently said it was almost intact. He was right. I just wonder what made it crash."

"Navigational error," she suggested.

"I doubt it. The damage pattern doesn't support that kind of catastrophic impact. It went down hard, but I'd say it was still under some control; whoever was steering it chose the landing site." He brooded for a while. "So why hasn't it been gutted?"

"The ghosts?"

The involuntary remark earned her an unmistakably censorious glance. "Now can we have some serious suggestions, please?"

"I take it you don't believe in ghosts, sir."

For a moment he appeared about to answer her question; then he obviously changed what he was going to say. "I think we can safely say that very few of the unpleasant types who make it their business to scavenge off the unfortunate are as easily scared off as that trader. But the ship's still there. Intact, as far as we know." He brooded again. "The captain should have taken some security down with him. Me, for preference."

"How up _are_ you on exorcism?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. She could have bitten her tongue. The lieutenant had just given her the plainest indication that he wasn't in the mood for idle chit-chat, let alone jokes.

The ensuing pause balanced on a knife edge.

Finally, "I've always found a loaded weapon in my hands far more reassuring than bell, book and candle," he replied dryly. "My theory is that there might have been some kind of hallucinatory agent in one of the rooms D'Marr visited. At a guess he wasn't as careful with his scanners as he should have been. I hope the landing party will be." His face expressed all too clearly that he feared they might not. "Though T'Pol's with them," he muttered to himself.

"Surely it'd take more than just a hallucinatory agent to keep _everyone_ away."

"We don't know how long it's been there, Ensign. He could have been the first one to find it. Though I'll have a good look at the scanner logs when the landing party get back, and that should give me more detailed information about the hull structure than I can get from up here." He glanced sideways at her. There was a faint smile softening his mouth. "You really are determined that it's ghosts, aren't you? You've been spending too much time listening to Travis and his stories."

"The Japanese have revered their ancestors for thousands of years," she said defensively. "And I'm sure the British have their share of spooky stories."

"Spooky, maybe. Credible, no."

"Oh, you're not telling me you've never felt even a little bit nervous. All those ruined castles and manor houses I've read about. You've never visited one of them that gave you even one little shiver?"

"Quite a few of them did. Mainly because ruined castles and manor houses aren't usually heated, and the British climate is rather less temperate than California's. And my father believed that imbuing his offspring with a sense of our cultural heritage was not something that should be dependent on the vagaries of the weather." A wry expression crossed his face. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Ensign, but I never had a single shiver that was due to anything more interesting than the draughts."

"Maybe they were paranormal draughts," she suggested hopefully.

He sighed audibly. "When you're standing in the middle of a jumble of ruined walls in a nor'easterly that goes straight through you because it can't be bothered to go around you, then believe you me, 'paranormal' isn't the first word that springs to mind." He frowned, evidently realizing he'd been skilfully sidetracked. "But can we get back to the subject in hand, please?"

"Yes, sir." She put on her meekest face, and managed to keep it straight despite his suspicious glance.

She wasn't convinced he was telling the absolute truth about his visits to all those haunted castles. And if she and Travis could catch him in a good mood in the Mess one day, perhaps they could worm some kind of admission out of him.

It was definitely a plan.


	20. Detained

"Well, we're home." Travis spoke cheerfully as the last of the power indicators went out on the console in front of the captain, and the docking clamp lowered the shuttlepod gently to the deck. From his tone, you'd never have thought he'd been the recipient of a particularly savage beating down there in the prison camp; his perennial sunny nature was quickly reasserting itself, even if it was clear from his occasional winces that his injuries were still painful, and would require treatment in Sickbay.

Malcolm held out a hand to help the injured ensign to his feet, and Travis took it with a word of thanks. The difficulty with which he stood was an indication that his body was stiffening up after the beating, and Reed realized with remorse that the misery of itching that had driven him to request that Phlox be waiting for them in the launch bay when they arrived must be far less in need of treatment than Travis's innumerable aches and pains.

It took only a couple of minutes for the launch bay to repressurise, and as soon as it did he opened the door. Phlox was just descending the stairs from the control room, with Trip right behind him.

"I can wait, Doctor," said the lieutenant quickly. "I think Travis is the worse off of the two of us."

The Denobulan was carrying a portable scanner, and ran it swiftly over the helmsman's body, while Captain Archer stood by, watching anxiously.

"Well, there's nothing actually broken, Ensign, but you've got three cracked ribs. If I can get you strapped up it will help with the discomfort, and my osmotic eel can certainly help with the bruising. I've brought something that will help you with the pain." Phlox took a hypospray from his pocket and applied it with professional briskness to the side of Travis's neck. "Now, if you and Mister Reed will accompany me to Sickbay, Crewman Cutler can get some practice with applying support bandaging and I can start work on removing that disguise. I believe you mentioned that it was causing you some discomfort," he added, smiling broadly at Malcolm.

"A little," muttered the tactical officer, uncomfortably aware that his junior hadn't complained at all. As a matter of fact it had reached the point where he wanted to start tearing the entire surface of his skin off, but that wasn't in the same class as three cracked ribs.

"Well, it was to be expected," said the doctor comfortably. "It will be quite simple to remove, and I can give you some ointment for any dryness afterwards."

"I'll go wash up and get changed." Evidently satisfied that the situation was being taken care of, Captain Archer turned to Trip, who was waiting to hear how everything had gone. "Travis, take the rest of your shift off. Malcolm, see how you feel afterwards and I'll leave it to you if you feel okay to return to duty. If not, just let us know."

"Yes, sir," they chorused.

"Well, gentlemen, let's get along to Sickbay and get to work." Phlox shepherded his two patients up the stairs and along the corridor, keeping up a flow of inconsequential conversation as they went.

His temporary assistant Liz Cutler was waiting for him. As soon as Travis was seated on a bio-bed, she helped the young ensign to peel off the upper part of his uniform and began carefully cleaning the cuts that the beating had opened up.

Phlox, in the meantime, was preparing the bowlful of particularly malodorous stuff that he said would dissolve the Suliban 'skin' that had effectively bonded to the upper layer of Malcolm's epidermis. Fortunately it hadn't been deemed necessary to attach it to the parts of the lieutenant's person that would normally be covered by his briefs (much to his relief at the time), but there had always been the chance that some ill fortune would require him to remove at least some of his clothing. For safety's sake, it had seemed best for him to be almost completely covered in the fake Suliban 'skin', though a skull cap had both concealed and protected his hair. So he had to strip off to his boxers and stand on a waterproof sheet while Phlox began diligently applying the 'goo'.

The relief of feeling the fake skin begin to soften and slough off was indescribable. He listened with only half an ear to Phlox telling him that he'd have to be very careful for a day or two, because his skin would be particularly sensitive since some of the _stratum corneum _(whatever that was) would be coming off with the discarded stuff. Glancing down, he was glad that there were no mirrors in Sickbay; right now he resembled nothing so much as a character in one of the dreadful old films that Trip had recently inflicted on his fellow crewmen, 'The Incredible Melting Man'.

Afterwards he would reflect bitterly that it was utterly inevitable that it was at that precise moment Hoshi Sato walked into Sickbay.

She looked at him in astonished dismay. He could only imagine how he looked: half-dressed and dripping in goo, and stinking to high heaven to boot.

"No need to worry, Ensign," said Phlox cheerfully. "I assure you it's only temporary."

His pride dripping away into the pool on the sheeting around his feet, Malcolm could only watch in silence as Sato turned away, visibly embarrassed, and began asking Travis how he was feeling. The contrast between his own disgusting state and Travis's battered but heroic appearance was so atrocious that at that moment the lieutenant could have howled with anguish.

Crewman Cutler had finished with the cleaning. She was just about to start applying the bandages, and with what seemed quite unnecessary eagerness Hoshi offered to help her. He didn't miss the way Travis's face lit up at the offer.

Of course the two ensigns would be friends. They worked within a couple of metres of each other every day, and had developed an easy, friendly rapport that was one of the features of life on the Bridge. He'd observed that they also enjoyed each other's company outside working hours; they were often to be found eating at the same table in the Mess, laughing and joking. And they were much of an age, too.

_Like calls to like_, as the old saying went.

With deliberation, Lieutenant Reed turned his back. The dark emotion that had suddenly surged up in him was foreign, inappropriate, unwanted. But all the same, it was one he couldn't control. And until he could, it would be very much safer for everyone if he simply stopped tormenting himself by watching something that was so natural, so inevitable, and so unbelievably painful. If he just concentrated on working out how to deal with this new sensation that had suddenly clamped around his heart like an iron band.

It was incredible. It was unbearable.

It was _jealousy._


	21. Vox Sola

"Well, I think we made a good team there." Malcolm smiled at Hoshi as they finally left the cargo bay. The creature had taken up residence in a container ready for transport back to its home planet, and its erstwhile captives had been carried off for examination in Sickbay. "Your translation matrix and my EM field saved the day between them."

"I wouldn't have got anywhere with it without T'Pol's help," she admitted, colouring slightly. "It's not like any other language I've studied. It's more like a series of mathematical constructs than anything else. It's going to take a lot of work to make much sense of it."

"I'd imagine you'll open a few eyes in the linguistics field when you publish your report. You'll be the first to introduce the concept. That'll put your name in the history books."

"Right behind yours with the EM field. I know Starfleet has been working on that for a few years and never perfected it."

"It's not perfect yet." He glanced down a little bashfully at the PADD he held. "It'll need a bit more tweaking before it's any use for widespread applications. But it worked well enough in these conditions."

"Tell you what. Join me in the Mess tonight and we can drink to our success. I'll bring a bottle of sake."

"I've been saving a bottle of Johnny Walker in my quarters for a special occasion," he suggested.

"The captain won't be too impressed if we're both hung-over on the Bridge tomorrow morning." Her eyes twinkled.

"I'll promise not to get hammered if you will." They began walking down the corridor towards the turbo-lift.

"We're due for some shore leave soon. I think we'd better save getting drunk till then."

"Hmm. It's been the best part of a year since we left Earth. I'm quite looking forward to a break if we can find somewhere suitable. Trip's already suggested we combine our firepower."

"Oh, if you and Trip are going to hit the town I'll guarantee you get into trouble."

"Are you implying I can't look after myself, Ensign?" he demanded loftily, thumbing the lift control button.

"Maybe you can look after yourself, Lieutenant." She grinned. "But both of you? Fifty credits say you can't."

He folded his arms and tried to look forbidding, without much success. "Gambling on duty?"

"Call it a challenge. Are you in?"

"A red-blooded Englishman never refuses a challenge."

"It's a bet then." They shook hands on it. "If you both get drawn to go, it's play or pay. If you don't, the bet's off."

"I hope you're a good loser."

The lift arrived and they both got in. The silence as it took them to E Deck was comfortable. When it disgorged them they had to head in different directions, and they smiled at each other.

"See you in the Mess at 20:00," said Malcolm.

"Sure thing." She winked, and then turned and walked away.

He watched her for a couple of seconds and then turned to head for his own cabin, shaking his head. At a guess, he'd just violated a round dozen regulations, but what the hell. Some days you just had to live a little dangerously.


	22. Fallen Hero

"Nice try, Ensign." The lift door hissed shut and the two of them were on their way to the Bridge.

"I have no idea what you mean, Lieutenant." Her voice was a study in innocence.

"I'm sure you haven't. If I don't go with Trip, I don't prove we can keep out of trouble. You're just panicking about losing those fifty credits."

"Well, I noticed Travis didn't have any difficulty believing you wouldn't be interested in a linguistics seminar. Sir," she added rather belatedly.

"I certainly hope not. I do have a certain reputation to keep up, you know - within limits, of course. We won't have time for everyone on board to take a turn, and if I'm one of the lucky ones I certainly won't be wasting _my _time doing the sort of things I've been doing for the last ten months."

"Not planning any weapons practice, then?" Hoshi enquired demurely.

Fortunately for him, the lift door opened at that moment and her capacity to invest his duties with innuendo was at an end. Carefully erasing the smile from his face, he stepped across to the tactical station and started to bring up the latest test results. Fortunately these were just enthralling enough to distract him from the thought that occurred to him just then of how absolutely delectable Hoshi would look as a mermaid.

Mermaids. Good grief. At a guess Travis would be heading straight there; he certainly seemed sold on the idea. Luckily, it was Trip he was booked to go roistering with, not Travis...

At that point cold horror congealed in his guts. It was virtually a certainty that at some point between now and the start of shore leave, Travis would make a point of mentioning the mermaids to Trip. And Trip, being an experienced diver, would almost certainly jump at the chance to combine one of his favourite pastimes with one of his other favourite pastimes.

At which point Trip, being Trip, would want Malcolm to tag along. Hopefully not in _too_ close attendance, of course, but the likelihood of his accepting any excuse for his stick-in-the-mud British friend not to take any part in this experience at all was virtually nil. It was too easy to imagine him recruiting Travis's help to physically propel their protesting friend down to the jetty, on the grounds that he had no idea what he'd be missing, and he'd thank them for it afterwards ... after all, Starfleet's personnel selection tests required that everyone could swim, and he'd passed those, so naturally all it would take was a bit of encouragement, and hey, Loo-tenant, it's as easy as fallin' off a log...

Malcolm lowered his head and gulped. He felt physically sick. Mermaids in the abstract were all very well – it was a picture of a mermaid in an encyclopaedia that had first given him any concrete information on what a woman actually looked like when she wasn't wearing any clothes, a youthful discovery whose guilty thrill he could still remember quite vividly. However, mermaids in the flesh were inextricably associated with an element he had every reason to regard with quite different emotions.

Water.

He could swim. He'd had to learn, in order to pass the Starfleet assessments. Possibly nobody but he would ever know how much effort it had taken him to just take the first step into the water, with the cold sweat of fear running down his back. He'd had hypnotherapy to help him cope, had been to a doctor for anti-aversion therapy and had been prescribed drugs to help him suppress the utter panic he felt as soon as water became more than thigh-deep on him. Somehow between all three of them, plus his own savage determination, he'd won through. But ever since then he'd avoided water of even modest depth like the plague, knowing only too well what was likely to happen as soon as he tried to enter it.

The discovery that his son had such an utterly absurd condition as aquaphobia had set the seal on his father's contempt, already fuelled by Malcolm's short stature, his unimpressive physique, and his always uncertain health. Stuart Reed had set out to cure him of it, using such rough-and-ready methods as taking his only son and heir out in a skiff into the Solent shortly after his eighth birthday and throwing him overboard. A future Royal Navy officer could not be held back by such a pathetic weakness. _The only way to help him overcome this stupid fear is to make him face it._

So he'd faced it. Head-on, in the choppy, freezing salt waters of the Solent, with terror obliterating his mind and his hands striking out in a frenzy for something, anything, to hold on to in a world that was sucking the heat from his body and dragging him down into the darkness fathoms below. It had only been when his clawing fingers were the only thing left still beating the surface of the water that his father had plunged a boat-hook down for him to seize. He'd grabbed on to it as though it were the only thing between him and eternal damnation, and somehow his father had hauled him on board again. He could feel the wooden keel under him as though he were still lying on it, huddled on his left side choking and crying and shivering where he'd been flung down like a half-drowned rat. And he'd been left there when Stuart tied up at the jetty. He'd listened to the hollow sound of his father's footsteps retreating along the planking towards the house, and quite possibly he'd have lain there till he died of exposure and shame if Maddie hadn't slipped out of the kitchen with a flask of stolen tea and a blanket.

Urged on by her pleas and encouragement, he'd got himself somehow out of the boat and the two of them had slipped away to a den they had in the rhododendron bushes at the far end of the garden. On previous occasions they'd hidden a box of matches and a few other guilty secrets there, and because he was shaking too hard to make any practical contribution to the war effort she'd fumbled a small fire into being under his direction. The fire, the tea and the blanket had been enough to keep the life in his body, and the feeling of her arm around his hunched, scrawny shoulders had been some comfort for his lacerated soul. He was long past attempting to conceal his woes from Maddie. In a world where she was his sole supporter, masculine brotherly pride was a luxury he'd never been able to afford.

And now, he could almost feel the cold waters of the Solent reaching out to finish what they'd started. No matter that the water on Risa might be blue and warm, that the beaches would be pristine and idyllic. Water was water, treacherous and patient. Water could afford to wait. Water would smile, twinkling innocently in the sun, luring one into its clutches. And then it would strike.

He swallowed, and fought down the wave of terror. If Trip got hold of that idea he'd just have to refuse. Really refuse outright. If Trip thought he was being unreasonable, well so be it. The only other alternative was to confess the truth ... he pictured the same blank, uncomprehending disgust on the handsome American face. Anything but that. He'd worked so hard to earn respect on this ship, he couldn't face the thought of forfeiting it by confessing to such a ridiculous weakness.

Trying to keep the movement unobtrusive, he gripped hard at the edge of his console, concentrating on taking long, steady breaths. He would not go swimming with the mermaids. He would not go swimming at all. He would keep a very healthy distance between himself and any damned water, and if Trip didn't like it then Trip could do the other thing.

Fortune was kind. At that moment Trip stepped out of the turbo-lift, wearing yet another of his stunningly awful Hawaiian shirts, and nobody at all had attention to spare for _him_ when there was an apparition like that in full view. The other officers on the bridge looked on, grinning, as T'Pol launched into acerbic comment, and nobody so much as glanced in Malcolm's direction during the few moments when he hunched ashen-faced over the tactical display. Slowly his breathing steadied. His colour returned to normal. Eventually he was even able to take notice of the readouts, and bit by bit, as he forced himself to concentrate on them, the cold of the Solent retreated into his memory. But his determination remained utterly unshaken.

_No mermaids._


	23. Desert Crossing

Talk about 'Out of the frying pan into the fire'.

The one thing you could say about this place was that there was no immediate prospect of drowning in it.

Malcolm Reed glared out of the viewing port at the expanse of desert that covered virtually the entire continent over which _Enterprise _was passing. He'd taken that Zobral fellow in the strongest dislike the minute he set eyes on him, and when apprised of the captain's plans to accept his offer of hospitality he'd made quite frantic representations on the security aspect of it. After all, it wasn't as though the man had any _standing_ – he didn't apparently represent any significant number of the inhabitants, or occupy any recognisable niche in the planet's government – if indeed it had one.

And what had he got for his trouble?

The standard response. 'Mister Paranoid Reed. Trust people, blah, blah, First Contact, yak, yak, decent guy, yadda, yadda, easily offended, now go away and play with your phase cannons while me and Trip go down there and have fun with these nice people we don't know from Adam and give them a starship captain and the ship's chief engineer as possible hostages.'

He ran a distracted hand through his hair. Surely if something was wrong they'd have heard by now? Would it look too obvious if he flew the second shuttle down – could he convince T'Pol that the captain should have some protection nearby?

"Your tea's going cold," said a soft voice behind him. He jumped slightly.

"Oh – thank you." He turned. Hoshi was holding the mug out to him, and he took it with a word of thanks.

"You're worried about them, aren't you?" she said quietly.

He glanced down at her. Confessing just how anxious he was could be construed as criticising his captain to a junior officer. "I wish the captain would listen to me sometimes," he admitted in a low voice. "I know how difficult it is for him to think the worst of people, but ... I'm here to protect the crew. I have the experience. That's what I was hired for. All I want to do is my job. Is that so terrible?"

"You protect us all the time," she chided him.

With a soundless laugh he turned back to the viewing port. "I didn't think it would be like this when I signed up. Sometimes I feel so ... useless."

"The captain can't help being the friendly type." Her tone was slightly reproachful.

"And I can't help being the suspicious type." Malcolm breathed deeply. "Nobody dies of being too careful, Ensign. I know just being out here is a risk, but I'm here to keep the crew clear of the _avoidable _risks."

"Don't you ever relax?"

"Out here? No. Never." _And not when I'm at home, either,_ he could have added. It had been a long, long time since he'd enjoyed a sleep without dreams.

He rolled his shoulders slightly, trying to ease the tension in them, and realised wistfully how much he'd love the feeling of fingers kneading the muscles that were now knotted with strain from the worrying he'd been doing ever since the shuttle left. Hoshi's fingers, his thoughts strayed on unbidden, slender and strong, starting on his shoulders and...

He pulled himself up short with a jerk that was almost physical. How unprofessional was it possible to _get_, letting himself think completely inappropriate thoughts about a junior officer when the captain and a senior officer were very possibly in serious danger?

He glanced at his chronometer. Standing here beside her wasn't going to help either, not with the scent of her jasmine perfume adding to his torture. "Time we were getting back. I've got a feeling..."

_"Bridge officers, report."_ T'Pol's voice came over the comm. He raised his brows and gave Hoshi a grim smile. The last mouthful of tea went down his throat as the two of them strode towards the door.

He'd been right. He knew there'd be trouble.

In the real world, experience won out over optimism. Every time.


	24. Two Days and Two Nights

"So what's everybody's plans for Risa?" asked Travis, tucking into his breakfast as though he hadn't eaten for a month. This was standard practice for him, though, so nobody commented on it. He was seated as usual with Trip, Anna, Malcolm and Hoshi, who were all eating their varied breakfasts with rather more moderation.

Trip sat back in his chair and smirked. "Me and Malcolm are going to hit the clubs. With the two of us workin' together, the ladies won't stand a chance." It was noticeable that his gaze drifted sideways towards a cat-suited back at the next table, and that he spoke a little louder than was necessary as if hoping the owner thereof would react. The owner didn't, except possibly the back stiffened slightly.

"Hoping for a different sort of weapons practice, Malcolm?" Anna teased.

The lieutenant spread peanut butter deliberately on one of his pancakes and bit into it before raising his eyes. His expression was faintly defensive, but a wicked sparkle lurked far back in the grey. "Somebody has to keep an eye on Mister Tucker. If only to control his sartorial excesses."

"What is it with you and mah shirts?" cried Trip indignantly. "Oh, I get it. You're just scared they'll cast yours in the shade."

"Anything that loud wouldn't be capable of casting anything in the shade. You're the only bloke I know whose shirts have a luminosity index."

Unable to think of a sufficiently crushing retort, Trip sniffed. "Well, I'm sure not goin' to be the one none of the ladies notices."

"Oh, they'll notice you all right. It'll be a bit like Travis here noticing an asteroid. 'Traffic Hazard, Avoid At All Costs'. Except that shirt you showed me isn't so much a traffic hazard as a black hole of taste."

"The trouble with you Brits," Trip said, wagging his porridge spoon at him, "is you're just so damn repressed. And you're worse than the average."

"That bloody shirt needs repressing. It needs binding with chains, tying to something heavy and dropping in the nearest wormhole. The only reason I haven't done it yet is that I can't get near enough to stun the bloody thing. Even my welding mask wasn't strong enough to stop it blinding me."

"Jeez, just think what it'd cause on the other end of the wormhole," said Anna in mock horror. "Just minding their own little alien business and all of a sudden something like that comes flying out at them."

"They'd think there's no intelligent life at this end if that's the sort of thing we're all wearing."

"Hey! Whose side are _you _supposed to be on?" Trip glared at his deputy. "I can have you scrubbin' Jeffries tubes, y'know!"

"I've scrubbed Jeffries tubes and I've looked at your shirt, Boss, and between the two of them I'll take the Jeffries tubes any day." She scooted away from him, laughing. "I'll see you in the department when you've taken enough of this."

"Oh, don't listen to them, Trip. It's not that terrible. Really it isn't." Hoshi actually thought it was pretty awful too, but she just wanted to stir things up a bit more. The engineer's look of surprised and hopeful gratitude made her feel slightly guilty, but she persevered, mainly just to provoke Malcolm, who stared at her with obvious indignant amazement that anybody should feel able, let alone compelled, to defend such a ghastly article of apparel.

_"'Not that terrible'?"_ he repeated in accents of disbelieving disgust. "I can tell you're not planning to walk down the road beside it."

"Well, I would, but I'm planning on spending my time brushing up my Risan. I'll leave the street-crawling to you two." She smiled at him sweetly and had the satisfaction of seeing him blush. He had just the same base intentions as Trip, but was far less comfortable with having them discussed. And that bet with him still stood; as far as she was concerned, if the two men did end up going street-crawling, the fifty credits were as good as in her pocket.

"You really _are_ going to use your leave time to _study the language?_" He finally swallowed what seemed to be a surprisingly obdurate piece of pancake.

"Sure. I've done some homework on it, but there's nothing like conversation with a native speaker to fine tune your syntax." She transferred the smile innocently to Trip. "I could teach you a few words, if there's any you think you might need."

The engineer blushed even more fierily than Malcolm had. "Ah, thanks Hoshi, but I ... I guess we'll manage."

Reed checked his chronometer and managed a creditable start of surprise. "Whoops, we'll be late if we don't get a move on."

"Shift doesn't start for fifteen minutes yet, Lieutenant," said Travis guilelessly.

"Trip promised to give me a hand checking a relay in the armoury before then." He grabbed his last pancake with an unmistakably panicked expression.

"I did?" Tucker's look of surprise turned into an unmistakable wince as a boot probably contacted his ankle under the table. "Oh! Yeah, the relay!" He pushed the bowl rather reluctantly away – there were still several spoonfuls left in it, and Chef had been in such a recklessly expansive Gallic mood that morning that he'd actually left a canister of golden syrup where Trip could get hold of it.

"The offer'll still be open later," Hoshi called after them as they beat a hasty retreat. "Just give me a call!"

She and Travis refrained from chortling until their two senior officers had fled.

Somehow, she had a feeling that that call was never really likely to happen.


	25. Shockwave: Part 1

"Thirty-six hundred."

The words were whispered. So quiet that even Hoshi's superb hearing could hardly have picked them up if she'd been in the turbo-lift with him, but charged with a horror beyond his capacity to express, if not – unfortunately – to feel.

_Thirty-six hundred people!_

He looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly.

He _had_ closed the plasma ducts. He had. He knew he had. He'd have taken oath on anything anyone cared to produce. The pre-flight briefing had been clear on the danger; the protocols to avert it had been simple. Close off at fifty kilometres. But being always keen to err on the side of caution, he'd closed off at half as much again. He could see his fingers on the relevant controls. He could see the lights winking off. Having the ducts closed would make the descent a little harder to handle, but it was nothing he couldn't cope with. He'd been calm, confident; two sets of backup alarms had stayed silent. The craft's sensors would have detected the first traces of tetrazine, they'd have blared the threat of combustion long before it could have happened.

But they hadn't. And he'd guided the shuttle blithely down, down into disaster and the conflagration that had burst away from the base of the shuttle and consumed thirty-six hundred people.

_He'd killed thirty-six hundred innocent people!_

Vomit rose in his throat too fast for him even to try to swallow. He fell to his knees, retching as though he were bringing his intestines up. Fortunately it was a while since he'd last eaten, so there wasn't much in his stomach.

The door hissed open. He shrank from discovery, too ashamed to turn his head. At that moment he wished the vomit-soiled floor of the lift would simply vanish and drop him into the shaft. At least the impact at the bottom of it would be some atonement for what he'd done.

"Lieutenant!" Hoshi's voice was quick with concern. At least it didn't follow up with witless questions such as 'Are you all right?'. _Absolutely fine, considering I just became a mass murderer. I'm sure it'll be quite a jolly sensation once I get over the surprise._

She stepped into the lift and pressed the command to return to E Deck. She also ordered someone from the maintenance team to meet them there with cleaning materials. In another universe he'd have been surprised and proud at how calm and competent she was in dealing with the unexpected situation; in this one, however, he had thirty-six hundred reasons not to be overly interested.

The lift stopped at E Deck. The door opened, and Hoshi activated the emergency stop button before crouching down beside him.

He was cold. So cold he was shivering convulsively. He was terrified she was going to touch him. Touch a murderer.

"Sir. Malcolm." _She was talking to a murderer_. "You need to get back to your quarters. Have a shower and change."

"It won't wash it off." He spoke to his hands, splayed on the lift's deck plating. The hands that had killed thirty-six hundred people. Thirty. Six. Hundred. People.

Men. Women. Children. Incinerated by the blast as the tetrazine ignited and the atmosphere turned to fire. The surface of their skin and lungs scorched in seconds, and death as painful as it was swift. Thirty-six hundred charred bodies down on the planet's surface, lying where they'd fallen in the ashes of what could one day have been a civilisation of its own. _All my own work._

His legs had ceased to function. It was possibly only shame that enabled him to co-operate as she tried to lift him.

She got him as far as the next junction of the corridor before his legs stopped working again. He leaned against the wall and stared at her in blank horror, envisaging her wreathed in flames, her perfect skin cracking and splitting in the inferno.

"It wasn't your fault." She was talking as though trying to convince herself as much as him. "You didn't do anything."

_I flew the shuttle down. I killed them all._

There was a comm panel right beside him. She pressed the button. "Commander Tucker, please respond."

"What's the problem, Hoshi?"

"Sir, can you meet us by the lift at E Deck? You'll have to use the accessway." A pause. "It's urgent."

"Be right there." The link closed.

He didn't think he'd shut his eyes, but a blink of time later there was a second blue uniform in front of him.

"Malcolm. We will handle this." The usually soft Southern-accented voice was hard.

_Put much faith in resurrection, do you, Commander? Sorry. Call me an agnostic. I've killed thirty-six hundred people and they're not coming back._

"LIEUTENANT!" The shout at almost point-blank range shocked him back from wherever he'd been headed. Tucker's eyes were sparking with rage. He blinked dazedly up into the blazing blueness of them, but the anger was not directed at him.

"Sir..." He made an effort to stand upright.

"We are gonna sort this out," growled Trip. "We are gonna find out what happened and then I'm gonna kick whichever sonofabitch did it all the way back to Jupiter Station to stand trial."

"Might as well start now," Malcolm whispered. "I was flying the shuttle."

"Don't give me that!" The engineer's hands slammed him back against the wall. "There was nothin' wrong with that shuttle and there wasn't a damn thing wrong with the way you flew it. So we're gonna get you showered and changed, and then you and me are gonna go over every goddamn centimeter of that shuttle and we're gonna find out what happened!"

He was manhandled into his cabin, and his vomit-soiled uniform unceremoniously stripped off him and dumped on the floor. Over his croaked protest he was shoved into the shower cubicle in his underwear, presumably to preserve his modesty in front of Hoshi, who had followed them in as though hypnotized by what she'd unleashed.

"You just stay in there and wash yourself!" shouted Tucker, pushing him back in again as he tried to make his escape. "Wash all that goddamn self-pity outta yourself too, and come out when you're back to bein' a Starfleet officer!"

That penetrated. He spun around, fury igniting in him just as the tetrazine had in the atmosphere. "You –!" He pounded both fists against the Plexiglas and screamed into the implacable face behind it. "'_Self-pity'!_ I killed them, you insensate Yank bastard!"

"Wash yourself, Lieutenant, or do I have to come in there and do it for you?"

"You set foot in here and I'll beat you to a fucking pulp!"

"Yeah, well, you could try. But in the meantime, if I have to tell you one more time I'll put it on your report as gross insubordination!"

Perhaps only the lifelong habit of obedience to a direct order from a superior officer enabled him to comply. Trembling with rage, he turned away and picked up a bottle from the stand with hands that shook. Exactly what was _this _supposed to achieve? Washing the blood off his hands like Pontius bloody Pilate? Giving a junior officer a floor show to take his mind off things?

Gel, shampoo, what did it matter? He sloshed out a handful of something and slathered it over his hair and body. Halfway through the operation he heard the door open and close; Hoshi had gone.

Some of the rigidity left his shoulders. He put his hands flat against the wall and leaned on them, his arms braced. From above him the water poured down on the back of his head. He stared down at the floor, watching the streaks of foam swirl around the drain between his feet and disappear.

"I did close the plasma ducts," he said at last.

"Sure you did." Trip's voice was now as quiet as his. "I've been through the logs and I've checked the ducts. When you hit the tetrazine layer they were shut up tighter'n a duck's ass. The explosion had nothin' to do with the way you flew the shuttle."

"But they'll use this against the captain." The Vulcans had never thought Archer competent for the job. They'd seize on it like a starving dog finding a juicy bone. Starfleet would have neither the will nor the inclination to resist Soval's demands that the ship be recalled in disgrace. The mission would be cancelled. _Enterprise_ would slink home in ignominy, and it would be a miracle if she ever made it out into space again. The inglorious demise of his own career, probably accompanied by an indefinite prison term, was almost insignificant by comparison. Humanity's triumphant embarkation on its journey of interstellar discovery would be over almost before it had begun.

"Sure they will. So we've gotta find out what really happened."

He turned around. The chief engineer was now waiting with a towel in his hands. "Come on, Malcolm. If there's anyone here who can find out how that explosion happened, it's you." The anger in Trip's face was gone. In its place was calm confidence in him.

He switched off the shower, pressed the worst of the water out of his hair and peeled off his wet underwear. The towel was tossed carelessly in over the top of the cubicle, and he caught it just before it enveloped him. "Thanks."

"All part of the service, Loo-tenant." Tucker turned away and began rummaging in the fittings for a set of clean blues and a fresh uniform.

"Don't you dare leave my socks untidy, Commandah."

"Aw, a bit of creative organizin' makes a room look lived in."

"Yes. Lived in by somebody who thrives on chaos." Reed stepped out of the shower cubicle, balled the wet towel and flung it with the accuracy of a weapons expert. It had not escaped his notice that Trip was amusing himself by applying some creative organising to his sock drawer. There are some things that a man has to defend, even against a senior officer.

"Oof! Sonofabitch!" The commander clawed the soggy missile off the back of his neck and glared in mock wrath at the perpetrator, who was poised to dodge a return. "Get your clothes on, Lieutenant, and let's get workin' on findin' out who really _was_ responsible for killin' those people. And _after_ we've done that, if you're still feelin' brave, I'll take you on in a game of basketball the end of next shift. Engineerin' versus Armory. And I'll bet we whup your sorry asses."

"Done!" He began scrambling into his dry change of blues. The offer of the game of basketball sounded heartless, but he knew it was anything but. "I'll get the full set of schematics downloaded through the launch bay computer," he continued, dragging a shirt half-buttoned over his head in his haste. "And then we can..." A pause. "Thanks, Trip," he said quietly.

"My pleasure, Malcolm." Trip handed him his coverall. "Now, you were sayin'...?"

"I'll tell you when we get there. We're just wasting time talking here." He was pressing the door control button even before the zip was up. Anybody who was passing would just have to conceal their incredulity at his damp and dishevelled state; he had more important things to think about right now. He had the killer of thirty-six hundred people to bring to justice. Everything else would have to wait.

Including, unfortunately, thanking Hoshi for having the presence of mind to send him a saviour. But with luck, that wouldn't have to wait very long.


	26. Shockwave: Part 2

Malcolm was in Sickbay, of course.

After the beating he'd taken, he wouldn't be fit for duty for some days. Doctor Phlox had decreed that he needed to spend forty-eight hours in bed while his broken ribs mended and the swelling around his eye went down. Liz Cutler, who'd been helping out at the time, reported that for once the lieutenant had accepted the doctor's decree with unwonted meekness.

He really must be feeling low, thought Hoshi.

She still had his shirt. As soon as she'd had the opportunity to change into her own, she'd stripped it off and placed it on the sideboard in her quarters, meaning to include it in her next laundry dispatch. But somehow, it was still there, even though her laundry had now gone for processing. She wasn't quite sure why. It was probably something to do with the rather nice smell of it: a faint, slightly spiky tang that reminded her of pine needles. She liked the way she could catch the scent when she came into her room.

Still, she had to give it back. Admittedly he could always get another from the quartermaster, but he'd certainly wonder why she hadn't returned it. It was unfair of her to abduct his shirt. And if he decided to ask her for it back, both of them would be embarrassed.

On all counts, it would be best if she gave it back to him _before_ he had time to ask.

She just hadn't gotten around to it yet.

She sat on her bunk, looking at the shirt and brooding. Then, making up her mind, she thumbed the comm link on her computer. "Sato to Phlox."

"Phlox here."

"Er, Doc ... I was wondering if it'd be okay for Mal ... Lieutenant Reed to have visitors yet."

"It would be wasted effort right now, Ensign. He's sleeping quite soundly. But he should be awake in a couple of hours. I'm sure he'd appreciate company then. We both know how much he enjoys being in Sickbay." Denobulans, it was clear, could apply irony with the best of them. "Would you like me to call you?"

"Thanks, doc. I've ... I've got something for him."

There was a certain sensation of boats burning as she signed off the comm. In the meantime, she had to go to the Mess Hall. It was long past dinnertime, and she'd be lucky if there was anything left.

* * *

She walked into Sickbay with a certain amount of apprehension.

Phlox had sounded upbeat when he'd called her, though on reflection he almost always did. The ship's medic was one of the most extreme and incurable optimists she'd ever known.

Having recollected that fact, she reserved judgment until she could assess the situation for herself.

Mal ... Lieutenant Reed was lying on one of the bio-beds. He was dressed in a standard medical gown that did little to conceal the bulk of support bandaging around his ribcage; a frame under the blanket over him kept it from pressing down and touching him. At a guess he'd have a considerable number of injuries that would keep Phlox busy for the next couple of days. She hadn't seen him after the interrogation, but she'd heard via the ship's rumor mill that he'd looked pretty badly beaten up when he'd been carried here for treatment. The fact that he'd had to be carried, as opposed to obstinately walking here on his own two feet, was testament to how damaged he must have been.

She thought at first that Phlox had been mistaken, and he was still asleep. Half of his face was swathed in more bandages, and the lid of the one visible eye was closed. His hands rested quietly on either side of him, straight and still on top of the blanket; at a guess, he wouldn't want anything on his chest that could be avoided. His breathing was not quite silent. She could detect the faint hitch of pain in it. Doubtless the analgesics he'd been given were extremely effective, but there would be bound to be some residual discomfort until the broken bones knit again.

He evidently hadn't been asleep, though, because as she walked a little hesitantly to his bedside the one eye opened. He looked faintly surprised. He also blushed slightly after a moment, doubtless remembering their last encounter, when she'd walked into his room topless. The occasion of her acquiring the shirt.

"Ensign?"

"I, er, I just wanted to check you were okay."

A rather rueful smile creased as much of his face as she could see.

"That's very kind of you. I'm fine."

"I can see that." She looked pointedly at all the bandages. "I guess Phlox just needed the practice and you just happened to be handy."

The smile transmuted into a grin. "Point taken. I'm as well as can be expected, then. Silik and his friend weren't very nice people."

"But you fooled them." That, after all, had been the point of the exercise. A sacrificial victim had been required, and as the officer with the requisite experience in resisting interrogation – up to a point – Malcolm had insisted it be he.

"Yes. I'm just glad they bought it. I must have better acting skills than I thought." He tried to shift position a little to get more comfortable, and winced. There were probably very few positions that would be comfortable right now.

At that point he noticed that she had one arm behind her back. His eyebrow lifted interrogatively.

Now it was her turn to blush. "Oh. Er, yes. I brought you something."

"Silik's liver on a plate?" he asked. "I'll ask Chef to cook it for me. With onions."

"Not exactly Silik's liver." She brought it carefully around into view.

His smile softened, charmed. "I'd have thought it would all have been eaten."

"I told Chef to save you the best piece." Pineapple upside-down cake was a rarity. The fruit was so difficult to keep properly in stasis that it rarely featured on the menu. When it did, Malcolm was invariably first in the queue. If she'd asked in the right quarters – the galley – Chef could have saved her a whole lot of bother trying to track down the lieutenant's favorite food.

"Can you help me sit up?" he asked. "I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and be spoon-fed."

"I'd better check it out with Phlox first." She set the plate down and went to find the doctor, who was pottering around his laboratory.

"Certainly, certainly." Apprised of the situation, the Denobulan bustled over to assist. The bio-bed servomotors whirred into action, gently tilting his patient into a more upright position. "Pineapple cake, eh?" he said approvingly, noticing the contents of the plate. "Not especially healthy, but there are times when comfort food is most appropriate. _Most _appropriate." He nodded at them both and bustled away again.

"He makes me feel like I'm about six," grumbled Malcolm. "I wish he'd stop fussing."

"Really? I thought most men enjoy being fussed over." Hoshi pulled over a nearby chair and sat down.

"Depends on who's doing the fussing." He glanced at her and unmistakably blushed again.

"I think you'd better eat this." Smiling, she passed him the cake.

* * *

Some time later she walked back into her cabin, yawning.

She was met by the faint scent that reminded her of pine needles. On the cupboard, the shirt was still lying neatly folded. She'd intended to take it back when she went to Sickbay. She really had.

Oops.

Oh, well. He wouldn't be needing it just yet, anyway.


	27. Carbon Creek

"Was that supposed to be _true?"_

Hoshi's fork dropped on to her plate. She stared at Trip, her sushi temporarily forgotten.

Malcolm stopped eating and sat with a broccoli floret halfway to his mouth, the identical expression on his face.

Trip sat back in his chair and wondered whether anyone else had noticed yet that the two of them had started to mirror each other.

It was still very subtle and very occasional. You had to be looking out for it. But after he'd noticed it once or twice, he _was_ looking out for it. And, granted that on this occasion he'd regaled his two friends with the story T'Pol had told him and the captain with the express intention of eliciting the same astonished disbelief that it had drawn from them, still the similarity of posture and gesture when the story came to an end was remarkably revealing.

"Couldn't tell ya." He shrugged. "She sure sounded convincin'."

"_Carbon Creek?" _said Malcolm incredulously. "So where the hell's that when it's at home?"

"Pennsylvania." Hoshi supplied the answer, having been listening with slightly more attention from the start. She'd obviously paid attention during her geography lessons too, because seeing him still look fairly blank she elucidated, "It's in the northeast USA, between New York and the Great Lakes."

"No. Sorry. She was stringing you along, mate." It was a testament to Reed's perturbation that he allowed the term 'mate' to cross his lips when speaking to a superior officer. Usually, off duty, it was 'Trip' at best. He blinked in some dismay on realising this, but persevered, evidently hoping nobody would have noticed. "Come on, she can't be saying _that_ actually happened. What would have happened when the bloke died? There'd have been an autopsy. Uproar. They wouldn't have kept _that _out of the papers."

Hoshi looked thoughtful. "Well, I don't know. I suppose it might have been ... covered up? _Because _of the panic it would cause?"

"Something like that would take a hell of a lot of covering up," argued Malcolm. "And surely Starfleet would have some record of it, even if it was never released to the general public."

"But you're not taking into account the danger that 'alien invasion' was thought to pose at that time. I've read up on it. There would have been mass hysteria. They'd have _had _to hush it up."

"From general knowledge, yes. But there would have to be some government knowledge." The lieutenant folded his arms.

Trip, having started the show, took a mouthful of pecan pie and wondered how long it would be before Hoshi's arms folded as well. He silently started counting.

Just under five seconds. He pushed his tongue into the corner of his cheek in the effort to hide the grin.

"Maybe there was. But you're making the assumption that the records survived. A _lot _of them didn't during the wars. The administration was in chaos for years."

"They wouldn't have lost something that important. And Starfleet did a massive amount of research into the old stories. They never found anything to substantiate any of the rumours." The chin went up.

Slightly slower reaction this time. Almost seven seconds.

"I still think it was possible. _Inevitable_, really. If they did discover actual proof that there were really aliens living on Earth, the last thing they would want was the truth getting out. They'd bury it so deep even they wouldn't be able to find it." She lowered her chin long enough to take a sip of her green tea.

Malcolm had forgotten his Earl Grey up till this point, but he remembered it three seconds later.

"I suppose it's possible that the Vulcans came back for him," he conceded. His forearms came to rest less confrontationally on the table.

"That would make sense, I suppose." Strangely enough, so did Hoshi's. Four seconds.

Trip was having so much trouble keeping from laughing by now that he had to take refuge in his mug of coffee. He didn't emerge from it until he was certain he could keep his grin under control till he got safely out of the mess hall. "Well, T'Pol didn't say one way or the other. An' if you good people will excuse me, I've got engines that need some lovin' attention."

_Like two other people I could mention around here, 'cept I don't think either of them have realized it yet. Hell, there'll be some trouble when they do._

He glanced back once as he walked through the door. They were arguing again. They were leaning towards each other, their attitudes as identical as a pair of bookends.

He shook his head, chortled, and left them to it.


	28. Minefield

Trapped on the _hull? _By a _mine?_

No. Oh, no. Oh God, _no!_ She wanted to believe she'd heard wrong, but even when the muzziness started to clear, it was plain she hadn't.

She must still be suffering the lingering effects of the concussion. Frantic for the clarity of thought she'd need now, Hoshi almost shook her head in the effort to achieve it, but realized just in time that doing so would possibly be one of the worst ideas ever.

Pressing her hands to her aching temples, she bent over the translator logs, listening desperately to the harsh-sounding language, trying to fit together the pieces sufficiently to allow her to enable _Enterprise _to formulate a reply. It was vital that she do so with all possible speed; she already knew that the unknown Romulans had fired two warning shots across the ship to hasten their departure from the planet where they'd been badly damaged by the impact with a cloaked mine. The explosion when the mine detonated was the reason she'd ended up here in sickbay. Unfortunately, during the process of negotiating the minefield they'd now found themselves in, disaster had struck. Lieutenant Reed, in trying to disarm another mine that had become attached to the ship's hull, had been impaled by it. He was still out there now, with Captain Archer trying to help him.

Going to warp – the only way to leave the system with the haste that the Romulans demanded – would be impossible to achieve safely with the mine still attached. It was therefore imperative that it be got rid of. The problem was, as things stood that would also involve getting rid of the officer attached to it, because the only safe way to part it from the ship was to detach the section of the hull plating to which it had magnetized itself. Man, mine and metal would have to be cast into space, unless she could find some way to explain their plight to the Romulans and plead for more time.

Stray thoughts scurried like terrified mice. If that happened ... what would it be like for Malcolm? To just float helplessly away from the ship, waiting to see it flash away into safety, leaving him to his fate? He wouldn't want to wait till his air ran out or the cold ate through his EVA suit. Nor would he take the risk of being captured by the Romulans, who might be all too interested in what he could perhaps be forced to tell them about Starfleet's technology and defenses. At a guess, the instant he saw _Enterprise_ leave he'd detonate the mine. At least it would be quick.

They wouldn't even be able to retrieve his body. Or what would be left of it, if anything was at all. He'd just be left there in the minefield, so much pulverized debris, floating for eternity. It was hardly likely that the Romulans would bother collecting his remains to give him some kind of decent burial...

She was finding the pattern. Strangely, it seemed to share some of the characteristics of Ancient Vulcan, though that had to be just a coincidence. Her mouth moved, rehearsing the words. She had to get this right. She had to save Malcolm. She couldn't imagine the ship without him. She couldn't bear the thought of looking across the bridge and not seeing him there. He made her feel safe. He wasn't the easiest guy to get to know, and sometimes she wondered what on earth in his past had made him so shy and withdrawn, but she definitely counted him among her friends. A good friend, even, though she wasn't sure exactly how he felt about her in return; it was hardly the sort of question she could ask. Certainly he was becoming a good friend of Trip's – their easy camaraderie had become part of the ship's fabric. But on any level, he was a friend she wasn't anxious to lose.

She went through it one more time. It felt right. She didn't have time to do anything like a fraction of the whole language, but she'd got enough to allow them to talk to the Romulans about the problem. She was confident, eager. She had a friend to save, if that was possible.

T'Pol had returned to the Bridge, to monitor the situation with Trip. They'd be waiting too, waiting for her to give them a possible key to the solution they needed.

She leaned forward and keyed the comm button on Phlox's desk.

"Sato to Bridge," she said.


	29. Dead Stop

Sickbay.

I hate bloody Sickbay.

OK. Phlox is a genius, and I'm glad we have him on board, and yes, if somebody twisted my arm up my back I might even admit that I actually quite like him, but his perpetual optimism is giving me a bloody headache. _And_ I'm coming to the conclusion that he's a closet sadist. At least when it comes to me.

Physiotherapy?

This isn't physiotherapy. It's torture. I've had a mine support go through my leg, for God's sake. _Complete_ with detonation circuits.

And not content with filling the hole with his noxious Regulan Blood Worms (they looked like common-or-garden bloody leeches to me, except that they were twice the size), he went and _lost _one of them in there. I mean, it could be anywhere by now. There are places where a chap just doesn't want to think a Regulan Blood Worm might have decided to take up residence. And 'it'll make its own way out eventually' doesn't cut it by way of comfort. It could add a whole new meaning to the question, 'Is that a Regulan Blood Worm or are you pleased to see me?'

In between bouts of torture I'm lying here worrying about how we're going to get the ship repaired. Before I had my exciting encounter with the second unexpected visitor to the ship's hull I had enough time to get a damn good idea of how bad the damage from the first was. And I know the area we're in isn't exactly swarming with friendly people we can ask for help with the repairs. Trip's tried to play it down in his visits since, but he's got absolutely no talent for telling fibs. If he tells me one more time to keep my shirt on, I swear to God I'll set Phlox's Pyrithian bat on him.

I suppose the anxiety about when, how and where that damned worm is going to put in an appearance should be put into its proper perspective in comparison, but Hoshi's due in for her daily check-up shortly. (I caught a glimpse of her being thrown halfway across the Bridge when the mine exploded; God, I was relieved when Phlox said she only had a bad concussion!) And I know what my luck's like. I'll bet a pound to a pinch of salt that she'll be sitting talking to me and I'll feel something start to wriggle in my underwear.

Oh yes. Very appropriate conduct for an officer. No, Ensign, actually it's a Regulan Blood Worm. Yes, I realise it's not a very original excuse.

Oh well. I daresay Phlox will be a character witness for me at the court martial. And Commander Tucker will snigger his arse off, the Captain will do a very bad job of keeping his face straight, and Sub-Commander T'Pol will compound my abject humiliation by asking why I didn't just cover up the offending area. Certainly, Sub-Commander. An attractive young woman walks up to me and the first thing I do is grab a pillow and cover my groin with it. Yes, I can see how well that would have gone down.

Sickbay.

I hate bloody Sickbay.

I do.

Really.


	30. A Night In Sickbay

"Malcolm, you're just gonna have to keep tryin'."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" The armory officer stood up with some violence. "I'm a weapons officer, not a technical engineer. If you couldn't rebuild one of these things, what the hell makes you think I can?"

"I'm not sayin' I couldn't if we had no alternative. I'm sayin' that right now I don't have the time. I'm spendin' all my time nursin' the only five we've still got." Trip set down the tray of sandwiches and the cup of tea he'd brought in. "Grab yourself a bite to eat. You've been stuck in here too long."

"It's hardly the sort of job I could combine with my usual duties." Reed gazed bleakly at the heap of schematic diagrams and the table full of assorted pieces of machined metal that he was trying – so far without any signal success – to combine into something that approximated a working plasma injector. "This one took a lot of damage when it blew. Lucky you'd got it isolated before it went, or it'd have taken out the reactor and us with it." He picked up a ham sandwich and bit into it moodily, chewing without apparently even noticing what it contained. "I'll do my best, Commander, but I'll tell you honestly, I don't think I'm going to be successful. You're going to have to talk the captain into eating humble pie."

Trip snorted. "I'm doin' my damnedest, believe me. But he's so antsy about Porthos he's takin' the Kreetassans' attitude as a personal insult. And he's not in the mood to listen to reason." He saw, and interpreted without difficulty, a somewhat disrespectful roll of the eyes that plainly said, _When is he ever? _Too many vain attempts to imbue his commanding officer with some of his own caution had left its indelible mark on Malcolm. Tucker hid a grin.

"For a diplomat, the captain can occasionally be somewhat undiplomatic." The lieutenant sat down again and started resolutely tinkering once more with the wrecked plasma injector.

As understatements go, it was possibly a world record breaker. Trip thought admiringly to himself that even T'Pol would have had difficulty in bettering it. Taking your beagle to visit people you already know are notoriously touchy and letting it pee on their plants had to be listed pretty damn near the top of any list headed 'Things A Starship Captain Should Know Better Than To Do.' And as if that hadn't been enough, ever since then the cap'n had been acting like _he_ was the affronted party because Porthos had gotten sick during his uninvited visit. Even his Vulcan XO was starting to get restive at this evidence of utter lack of logic in her commanding officer, to judge by her expression lately.

"Oh, so you know what the problem there is?" The chief engineer's eyebrows rose in faintly arch surprise at the realisation that his friend was evidently extremely well informed on exactly what had been going on in his absence. As far as he'd been aware, the lieutenant had been isolated – at his own request – since well before the discovery of exactly what the Kreetassans were currently aggrieved about. He'd wanted total peace to enable him to concentrate on trying to rebuild the plasma injector that had failed some days ago.

Malcolm had apparently found something in the injector's innards that needed particularly close attention. "Ensign Sato felt I should be kept informed of developments," he said, rather too casually. "I appreciated the information."

"Yep. I'm sure you did." He leaned against the wall, thoroughly enjoying the Brit's discomfiture. "Though I could've sworn the idea was that you weren't supposed to be disturbed by _anybody._"

"The situation _does _impact on me. Naturally she thought I ought to be kept up to date," said Malcolm stiffly.

"Real nice person, Hoshi," remarked Trip, á propos of nothing in particular.

He didn't have to be looking in that direction to feel an eye turn towards him that had a lot in common with the muzzle of a phase cannon.

"Real good figure, too," he pursued, when no reply was immediately forthcoming.

"I hadn't noticed." Every careful syllable was made of metal. Hell, you could have fitted that reply onto the hull and polarized it, and nobody would have noticed the difference.

"Pity. You don't know what you've been missin'." He straightened, turned for the door, and sauntered out of it nonchalantly.

As soon as it closed behind him he whisked around and put an ear to the metal. It was not proof against the barrage that struck it seconds later. Damn, but that was language unbefitting any officer. Even in the British Royal Navy, which must be where some of those colorful epithets had originated.

He strolled away to Engineering, still grinning. He was confident that after Jon was through worrying over Porthos and bellyaching over the Kreetassans' attitude he'd simmer down and realize that whoever was in the wrong, he needed to swallow his pride for the sake of the ship. It might take a while, but he'd get there. If necessary, a friendly word in the ear might be forthcoming to help him see a little sense. Then they could get hold of the new plasma injector, fit it and get back under way.

In the meantime, this was _fun!_


	31. Marauders

Captain Archer didn't think he'd ever seen Malcolm so transparently happy as he was right now.

Even the episode of the pineapple birthday cake paled by comparison.

Then, although obviously touched, he'd been somewhat embarrassed by the attention. He'd wasted no time in quietly retreating back into his shell.

Now, however, he was in his element. Assessing the situation down on the planet, planning the tactics, training the soon-to-be-resistance fighters in weaponcraft, directing the placement of the ambush; his protective camouflage had fallen off him without him even knowing about it. He exuded confidence and authority. People obeyed him without question, inspired by his obvious belief in himself. Somewhere under all that British reticence a real leader was lurking, who might someday get to command his own ship. Before today, his captain would never have believed that. Now he was seeing it for himself.

As for the change in Hoshi, he'd have believed that even less. It wasn't so long ago that she'd been the ship's pet mouse, scared by the vibration of the deck plating when the engine shifted gear. Now, by all accounts, she'd actually stepped forward to take over the weapons training, right under the master's nose – and damnation if Malcolm hadn't just stood back and let her, looking as proud as if he were watching a starship he'd built himself take its maiden voyage out of spacedock.

"The Klingons just activated their transporter, Sir." Think of the devil and she contacts you by comm, thought Archer. "We're keeping out of sight like you ordered."

"Great. Stand by in case anything goes wrong down here. We may need your help."

"Nothing will go wrong, sir," she said confidently, and closed the link.

Archer's eyebrows rose as he put his communicator away. He was beginning to think he didn't know the half about the people aboard his ship.

His tactical officer was standing in front of him. Dressed in a shabby, sleeveless blue top and scruffy pants, dirty and disheveled and basically unrecognizable as the impeccably dressed officer whom he'd come to know and respect, Malcolm was alive as he'd never seen him before.

Was it some of that life that had communicated itself somehow to Hoshi?

If I could get hold of the secret of that...

But then, there wasn't any secret. _Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war..._

"You reckon we're ready for them, Malcolm?" he asked softly.

"As ready as we'll ever be, sir." Reed hoisted the phase rifle. He looked like a damned pirate. Like one of the dogs of war. The miners were behind him, armed and ready: Reed's Rebels, ready and eager to take on the marauders.

It was time to cry 'Havoc!'


	32. The Seventh

"Coming to the Mess Hall for some lunch, Lieutenant?" asked Hoshi as the head of Tactical joined her in the lift from the Bridge.

He shook his head. "No time. I promised the captain I'd use the time to get the torpedo launchers recalibrated. I can't finish the job, because Captain Tucker won't give me permission to divert computer access from Main Engineering for a day, but I can get a lot of it done. And perhaps when the real captain comes back he might understand the necessity." He tried to rein in his irritation from becoming too apparent.

"Trip's in a bad position," she said consolingly. "He can't let you take the engines off-line in case we need to go chase after the captain and T'Pol. It's a big responsibility for him."

"I can understand that, I suppose." He rotated his shoulders, trying to roll some of the tension out of them. It hadn't gone down too well with him either, the idea of both of the ship's most senior officers just upping and disappearing into nowhere on some errand that was too secret for any of their juniors to be let into. He'd tried – vainly as always – to persuade the captain that they needed a security escort (himself, for preference), but that one had been neatly sidestepped by the usual reply that the ship needed him more. Which might be true, especially if some kind of trouble materialised and they found themselves in a fire-fight, but it didn't do much to stop him worrying. And if he was worrying, God alone knew how Trip felt; abandoned in the hot seat, with all the Universe to start searching in if the miscreants didn't return...

The lift stopped at E Deck.

"I can bring you something down to the Armory afterwards, if you like," Hoshi offered as she got out.

He smiled and shook his head. At least now they were on good enough terms for him not to mistake her kindness for an attempt at propositioning him. "Thanks for the offer, but I probably wouldn't have time to eat it if you did. I'll send someone for a cup of tea when I start to get caffeine withdrawal."

"Trip's been giving you bad habits," she said disapprovingly, though it seemed she couldn't help smiling in return.

"Oh, I had lots of bad habits before I met Trip. You'd be surprised."

The lift door closed on the sound of her chuckle.

A second or two later it opened again at F Deck. He turned and walked towards the Armoury, so accustomed to the way by now that he didn't even think about it. His thoughts had turned elsewhere, rather without his permission; they were dwelling on the fact that Hoshi was a very attractive woman and had a really lovely smile.

Neither of these facts was news to him. He'd realised some while ago that he was becoming attracted to her, and had done his best since to convince himself that he wasn't really, or if he was it was completely unprofessional and he should just control himself. On several occasions lately he'd had to give himself an extremely pointed talking-to. The worrying thing was that he was no longer sure he was listening.

_Torpedo launchers. Must think about torpedo launchers. And keep your mind off vulgar comparisons,_ he said sternly. That parting line had been unprofessional for a start off. Far, far too close to flirting. Good job the door had shut when it had; God knows what he might have said next if it hadn't.

He was really, really going to have to mind his step around Hoshi Sato.


	33. Communicator

_CRACK!_

The sound brought Malcolm bolt upright in his bunk, gasping in terror. It was so real he couldn't believe it was a dream. Even when one shaking hand went to his neck and felt nothing there but cold sweat, he couldn't make himself stop shaking. His bedclothes were welded to him with perspiration.

This was the third night in a row. It was getting to the point where he was afraid to go to sleep, because the nightmare would be waiting for him. The previous evening he'd been so tired he'd fallen asleep at his desk, and woken in the early hours with an atrocious crick in the neck and his head on a pile of padds. Today was set to be even more grim; it was just gone four, and he was too scared to sleep again even if his body would let him.

He crawled out of bed and into the shower. The water washed his body clean, but his mind was still full of the dream. Except that most of it hadn't been a dream. It was a memory, and that was why it wouldn't go away. Why it was still haunting him, replaying over and over again in his head, and waiting till he was defenceless to fill in the blank of what would have happened if Trip, T'Pol and Travis hadn't got there in time.

It wasn't the first time he'd faced death at close quarters. It wasn't the first time he'd felt the utter horror of imminent extinction. But it was the first time he'd believed he was going to die for absolutely nothing, for a pointless scruple. Protecting the culture? They'd already blown that. Disclosure of the truth could hardly do more damage, in fact it might limit what they'd already done. Their attempts to explain away their physiological differences had done nothing but exacerbate the situation on the planet, feeding the suspicions that were already bordering on paranoia of what the 'Alliance' was capable of. If there was a war in the offing, as it had certainly seemed there might be, their behaviour might well have been the trigger that set it off. Was that a situation that had merited their dying to defend it? Wouldn't it be better to just tell the truth? Even the captain had debated the wisdom of their course. Christ, what would have been the _harm?_

But Archer had decided otherwise. It wasn't his officer's part to dispute his decision; the mantle of authority lay elsewhere, and he'd taken the oath to obey orders. The oath that had demanded he die for nothing.

His body was now shaking with anger and shame, as well as fear. At a stupid decision, for in hindsight he couldn't think of it in any other light. And also at his own folly, which was almost worse. He hadn't thought through the ramifications of that 'confession' that they were genetically enhanced soldiers. He'd made matters worse, infinitely worse, trying to save his own skin. And when they'd been waiting for the end, he hadn't even had the guts to admit he was scared. The lie must have been transparent; nobody faces execution without fear, even though he could say with truth that he'd been chiefly terrified that the noose wouldn't work properly and his death would be an ugly and protracted business of slow strangulation instead of a neat snap.

The trapdoors had been in working order, though. As he and the captain had been pushed towards the door into the room where they were to die, he'd heard the mechanism being tested for the last time beyond it.

_CRACK!_

This was getting him nowhere. It was reaching the point where even his room felt as though it were suffocating him. He didn't suffer from claustrophobia as a rule, but right now he needed to get out and find somewhere the walls didn't feel as if they were closing in on him. Even a walk around the corridors would be a change of scene.

He left his room and paced silently around the deck, without any particular destination in mind. The lights were low to simulate night time. Everyone except the gamma shift crew would be fast asleep. He heaved a shaky sigh. Wherever he went his thoughts would still go with him. He was used to facing his demons alone; he'd had enough practice. Just another to be added to the catalogue, that was all.

He came to a halt. This aimless wandering was achieving nothing. He'd take a quick glance around the Armoury, which was always soothing to him, and then if he still didn't feel as though he was likely to get any sleep he might as well get a cup of coffee. He might even surprise Chef, who was a legendary early riser, as he needed to be in order to have breakfast ready for the alpha shift.

"Lieutenant?"

The low voice from behind him made him jump like a scalded cat. He hadn't even heard the cabin door hiss open. With difficulty he smothered an exclamation that was certainly not appropriate for use in front of junior officers, particularly female ones. Equality be damned, Reeds were trained to observe certain proprieties, even in the most trying circumstances.

"I'm sorry, did I startle you?" She stopped uncertainly, plainly unsure of her welcome.

"Something like that." To emphasise the irony, he put a hand over his palpitating heart. "But I'm sure Phlox will be able to repair the damage."

Reassured by his humour, however shaky, she stepped closer. She'd caught a short dressing gown on over her nightwear for the sake of decorum, but her whole appearance – silky black hair loose and in disarray, her long legs bare right down to her small, shapely feet and ankles – was suddenly such a violent contrast to the workaday image he was used to that she seemed like a completely different creature altogether. He'd have been less surprised if a dray horse had turned into a unicorn in front of him.

Anything with eyes on the ship would have come to the conclusion long ago that Hoshi Sato was very pretty. Now he realised with a shock that she was _stunning._

Held silent for a moment by his surprise and confusion, he said nothing as she came right up to him. She put a hand on his arm, and he froze as though it were a butterfly that an unwary movement might startle into flight.

"Are you okay?"

He blinked. He could read nothing in her face except genuine concern. He opened his mouth to say 'Fine', but 'No' fell out instead.

He wished then he hadn't said anything. A worried frown creased her forehead, marring its perfection.

"Can I help?"

_What are the three most important words in the world?_

_How long ago was it that anyone had said them to him in any other context than work? He actually couldn't remember it ever happening._

Afterwards he thought that it must have been some combination of the strangeness of the empty corridors and the advanced hour and the informality of their clothing. Somehow they ended up in the observation lounge, sitting side by side on one of the couches there, and his head was resting in the crook of her neck while her arm encircled his shoulders. His upper arm lay across her waist, carefully respectful. An onlooker would have concluded they'd been involved in some kind of intimacy, but in fact nothing had taken place at all; he hadn't so much as kissed her. He didn't even understand how he'd got here, let alone why he was neither uncomfortable nor aroused. He simply felt safe. And that, for a man who'd been shaped by wariness since infancy, was something so miraculous that once again he hardly dared breathe lest he frighten it away.

With quiet wonder he felt her fingers begin to comb slowly through his damp hair, stroking his scalp with gentle and infinitely soothing movements. He had a sense of having reached sanctuary, of having arrived at a place whose existence he had hardly ever suspected: where the woman touching him cared that he was hurting.

He didn't want to speak in case it broke the spell. He hardly heard the low voice – so low even he could hardly hear it – describing the fear and the shame, the bare utilitarian execution room and the gallows, and the feeling of the knotted rope lying around his neck. He was used to doling out words sparingly, for words could be turned into weapons and flung back at one; the voice, however, spoke with fluency and pain, concealing nothing that was his alone. Only the long habit of loyalty kept back the words that concerned the captain.

When he'd run out of words she didn't say anything. She just kept stroking his hair, and he lay quietly, listening to the steady thump of her heart.

He'd never felt anything like this before.

* * *

Hoshi sat down on her bunk and remained quite still for a moment, lost in thought.

It had been an extraordinary hour.

Having exceptional hearing definitely had its downsides. For one thing, during her lighter periods of sleep she was all too liable to hear any noise in the corridor outside. She'd learned perforce to tune most of these out; a passing footstep would not disturb her these days. In all fairness, nobody made more noise than necessary around the ship in the hours of 'darkness'. She usually managed to get a decent night's sleep.

How astonishing, then, that she'd heard so soft a sound, and heard so much in it that had brought her wide awake, heart pounding.

A single sigh.

When she'd opened her door and seen who it was, she'd hesitated. The lieutenant was forbidding at worst, uncommunicative at best. When she'd first come on board she'd found him intimidating in the extreme; his reserved manner set her at a distance and kept her there, and his extraordinary proficiency with weapons only highlighted her own inadequacy with them. She suspected at first that he despised her. Slowly, however, she'd begun to catch glimpses of the man behind the barriers. Trip had done much to melt the ice, but still the chill had lingered.

Now, however, she hadn't seen an aloof superior officer, immaculate and untouchable. In the low light she'd seen a lonely man with rumpled hair and haunted eyes, a man who flinched visibly from an unexpected voice.

Lieutenant Reed would cut her dead, furious that she'd seen too much. He'd be even more curt than usual in sending her to the rightabout, and his manner would freeze her for days in case she tattled about his moment of weakness.

But Malcolm, though ... Malcolm who sometimes smiled at the crazy things Trip came out with on the Bridge or in the Mess, a smile that occasionally had a faintly wistful quality that reminded her of a child with its nose pressed to a sweetshop window ... would Malcolm let her in?

She couldn't remember ever touching him before in a way that somehow seemed so intimate and yet so commonplace. A hand on the arm, that was all.

Her uncle had once taken her on a visit to a stud farm near his home, thinking to delight her with the sight of the new foals running with their dams. It had been a memorable day, probably more so because her childhood as a linguistics prodigy hadn't allowed many opportunities for the outings that other children took for granted. But she remembered the nervous strength of the beautiful Arab stallion in his stall; she'd summoned up the courage to pat the satiny neck, and he'd wheeled away, snorting. She could still remember the sense of disappointment that her gesture of friendship had been misunderstood. This felt uncannily similar; the braced muscle under her hand, the tension at the unfamiliar touch. Would Malcolm, too, wheel away?

But, extraordinarily, he hadn't.

There had been a kind of awe at the way the barriers melted at her touch. She didn't for a moment make the mistake of thinking that this was all it would ever take. Malcolm Reed was far more complex and private than that. But in the dimness and silence of the corridor, somehow she must have said the right thing, made the right gesture – either, both or neither, who would ever know?

He hadn't needed answers. For the past there is no cure, only acceptance. He had simply needed to be held and heard, and afterward he had slept, his head pillowed on her shoulder. It was the strangest feeling, and an extraordinarily precious one. He hadn't slept for long, perhaps ten minutes, and then he'd woken up again and given her a smile that she suspected few people had ever seen. He'd murmured a few words about the lateness of the hour, with a gentle apology for taking up her time and robbing her of sleep, and then thanked her for listening to him. With that he'd walked her back to her quarters and left her there.

He hadn't said anything about whether she'd helped, but there was a peace about him as he left that suggested she might have done or said the right thing. Not that she'd done or said much. Just listened.

She lifted her fingers and touched the corner of her mouth. The feeling of his lips just brushing it still lingered there.


	34. Singularity

"I hope this isn't too salty for you." Hoshi placed a bowl in front of him. "I made it specially. And now I'm not in such a worry over it, I think it came out fine."

"I shouldn't have complained. It was very ungentlemanly of me after you'd been to so much trouble. But we weren't exactly ourselves, any of us." Malcolm picked up the chopsticks; she noticed he handled them effortlessly. "Ladies first?"

She sat down opposite him. It had seemed only fair that he give her the chance to demonstrate that she really could cook, and to her relief he'd accepted the suggestion readily. Here in the Mess they were in neutral territory. It wasn't anything special – not at all. Just a meal between friends. Nothing there that anyone could – so to speak – 'make a meal of.'

Her recipe had turned out splendidly. It had been worth all the trouble she'd put into it the night before, working alone in the quiet galley. And they'd put in a long shift today, putting to rights all the chaos that had resulted from the crew's exposure to the radiation from that trinary star. People all over the ship had gone off into their individual obsessions, occasionally with somewhat bizarre results. She was sure that Malcolm must be as hungry as she was.

She watched him begin eating steadily. He didn't comment except for a nod and a smile when she asked if it was okay this time. Realizing that he must be too starving to talk, she tucked into her own dinner. The bonito-flavored dashi stock was complemented perfectly by the fish cakes and tiny, perfectly fried fish balls.

He must be used to eating exotic food, she thought idly, if his parents lived in Malaysia. Though in the Mess he more often selected the more prosaic English dishes like roast beef, and had been known to court disaster by trying to teach Chef how to cook chips properly. That said, on that memorable occasion when she'd been trying to track down his favourite food, his mother had said he just ate whatever was put in front of him...

With awful inevitability, a second memory from that occasion surfaced. Malcolm's onetime best friend Latrelle, racking his brains to remember what they'd eaten at some restaurant in San Francisco the two of them had visited regularly. And the one thing he could come up with with anything like confidence: _I think he hates fish._

Numbly she watched as he put a fish ball in his mouth and swallowed it. Now she was paying attention, he was hardly chewing any of it. He was just ... ingesting it. And knowing what his digestion was like, eating like this was going to have him doubled up in agony later on.

His free hand was resting lightly on the table top, but the knuckles were white.

She put down her chopsticks. "Malcolm."

His gaze had been fixed on the glass of apple juice he'd brought to the table. He looked up with a slightly guilty start. "What?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She could see the blush clearly, because his face had acquired a very faint green tinge that showed it up. "Tell you what?"

She put her hands out and took away his chopsticks, laying them down on the table. "That you hate fish."

The blush intensified, but his eyes were steady. "I was enjoying the meal."

"Sure. That's why you look about ready to puke your guts up." A lifted finger stopped the incipient protest. "And don't say you're not. I've got eyes."

He looked down at the bowl for a moment and then up again. The frown that had briefly creased his forehead cleared, and he looked at her gently. "Fine. It's true; I don't like fish. But I've eaten it before, when I had to. And I _was _enjoying the meal – whether you believe it or not."

"So how could you be enjoying it, when you don't like fish?" she demanded.

"Because a friend had made it for me," he said quietly.

There was a little silence.

"About ... the other night," he went on at last, in an even lower voice. "If I ... if you were ... if my conduct was ... improper in any way, I apologise."

"There's no need, Malcolm," she said softly. She looked at his mouth. She could still feel the brush of it against the corner of hers. At odd moments since she'd found herself wondering what it would be like to feel him kissing her passionately – for there was fire under all that English ice, she was sure of it...

But there were regulations. And he'd know every one of them, chapter and verse. No fraternizing with junior officers and crew.

The two pips on the breast of his uniform blinked at her. If he was ... tempted ... he'd never act on it.

Did she wish he would?

Hoshi stood up. She'd lost her appetite. _At least, for oden_.

He stood up too. His face registered alarm. He was afraid she was offended.

"It's been a long day. I think I'll turn in and get an early night." She found a smile that would pass muster as genuine. "I think there's some apple pie in the dessert cabinet. You could always finish off with that."

A faint smile in return. He nodded. It was unlikely that he'd eat any more of the fish stew after she left; politeness can only carry one so far.

She walked to the door. Reaching it, she looked back once. He was still standing, motionless, watching her.

_Hell._

_Now what?_


	35. Vanishing Point

**Author's Warning: This chapter contains strong language!**

* * *

Hoshi wandered disconsolately down the corridor.

She made the conscious effort to avoid people who were walking in the opposite direction. She knew they couldn't see her, and the sensation of the captain just walking through her incorporeal body had been one she wasn't anxious to repeat.

She'd waited long enough to see Phlox come down to join Trip with his medical scanner, and then retreated. The sensation of wanting to kick somebody was fast becoming overwhelming. Unfortunately, in her current predicament, the ability wasn't there.

"I'm _here!_" she screamed at the two men as she left.

Neither of them had reacted. It was all too clear that she was wasting her time.

_Transporter malfunction_. The key to the puzzle had to be there. With a feeling of apprehension twisting her guts, Hoshi made her way back there again. She couldn't help feeling that some ... part of her... was still there, on that damned pad, another ectoplasmic Cyrus Ramsey. The way things were going, she might well bump into him soon.

Well, hi, fancy meeting you floating around...

Someone else had come to the same conclusion about the transporter. A slight figure in blue was kneeling in front of it, peering into its innards. Even as she arrived, the dark head withdrew from its inspection and looked desperately at the scanner he held. His other hand ran distractedly through his hair, rumpling it even further.

He sat back on the transporter pad, his arms resting on his knees. He stared at the console, the scanner dropping through his fingers in defeat.

He was whispering something to himself. So quietly that even with her acute hearing she could hardly catch it.

Ever since childhood she'd been inculcated with the belief that eavesdropping was wrong. Nevertheless, she wanted very, very badly to get a glimpse into Malcolm Reed's mind at that moment. It might help her to sort out her own thoughts, a process that would be of enormous benefit if ever she did somehow manage to get back to the real world and leave this nightmare of invisibility behind.

In the circumstances, tiptoeing was manifestly absurd. He wouldn't have heard her if she'd marched up to him wearing seven-league hobnailed boots. Nevertheless, habit was too strong. She tiptoed anyway. Perhaps he was saying something really romantic, something heartfelt he would never have said while she was listening...

She was right on one count.

Suddenly the words came clearer. "Bloody, fucking, bollocking transporter. I should take you to fucking pieces and shoot you out of the nearest fucking airlock. I should carve you up with a fucking welding torch and use you for fucking target practice. I'm going to find out who put you together and carve his fucking bollocks off with a rusty fish-knife. So help me God, by the time I'm through with him he'll wish he'd never been fucking born."

Well. As impassioned declarations went, it was certainly revealing. He was certainly in the grip of some extremely strong emotions at that moment.

Just not ones she particularly wanted to hear.

_Maybe I'm better off with Trip and Phlox after all,_ she thought.

Now, where was it they'd said they were going to search? Access Shaft B7?

_Well, wherever it is, it's got to be better than this._


	36. Precious Cargo

Trip got into the turbolift and exhaled heavily.

_Might as well get it over and done with_.

He touched the command. The lights shifted rapidly. _E, D, C, B, A_.

The door hissed open. In front of him the Bridge was a scene of orderly calm. A course was already laid in; the ship was travelling smoothly towards her next encounter. The vibration of the deck plating under his boots told him the engines were running like cream. Everything was as it should be.

Yeah.

The officers were gathered in the Situation Room for the morning briefing. He joined them there. He knew what was coming. He saw their expressions as he arrived, and his heart sank.

Jon turned around and gave a well-feigned start of surprise. "Commander! I take it you gave Princess Kaitaama an appropriately warm send-off?"

_Har, har. Think you're such a goddamn wit, don't you, Jon? _ "She seemed pretty satisfied with it to me, Cap'n," he parried pointedly.

"I'm glad you were up to it. It must have been very hard. For you to be sufficiently diplomatic, I mean, of course," he added, with transparent dishonesty.

A perceptible chill was radiating from the ship's Science Officer. "Of course, as a _diplomat_, you remembered where not to stick your fingers this time."

"T'Pol, I guarantee you that the First Monarch of Krios Prime will have nothin' but happy memories of my diplomatic achievements."

Travis hadn't been among those who'd come down to the planet to rescue him and witnessed him and Kaitaama in a state of advanced and dishevelled undress. Nevertheless, Trip knew exactly how fast rumors got around on this ship. The helmsman's eyes were large with delighted curiosity.

Malcolm, of course, _had _been one of the landing party. His head was bent over the display; he was apparently engrossed in a study of a rather unremarkable star cluster that their present course would take them close to. Nevertheless part of his jaw was visible, and the muscles twitching in it suggested that he was having an extremely hard time not snickering.

Hoshi was apparently smitten with the same unusual fascination with the star cluster. If anyone was tuned into the rumor mill it was Hoshi, and given the situation between her and Malcolm, Trip would have bet a year's pay that at least one or two veiled hints would have passed between them. She hadn't looked up at him once since he arrived. Either she was mad at him or she couldn't trust herself not to give the game away. He knew which of these his money was on; Hoshi might be a mean poker player, but even she occasionally got the giggles.

"So I can put it down in the logs that she was completely satisfied with First Contact," said the captain, straight-faced.

"Oh, she was more'n satisfied, Cap'n. I can absolutely assure you of that." He allowed himself just a hint of a smirk.

"Well, if ever you find yourself out of a job with Starfleet, Commander, at least you know you have a career waiting for you on Krios." Malcolm didn't look up, but his voice was even more loaded with innuendo than the captain's had been. _Sonofabitch._

"So I was given to believe, Loo-tenant. And if ever you might find yourself needin' any lessons in _diplomacy,_ just come down to Engineerin' any time and I'll throw you a few hints."

That got the Brit's attention all right. The dark head came up suddenly, the eyes flaring with consternation and wrath.

Trip let his eyes travel meaningfully to Hoshi. "After all, you never know when _diplomatic skills _might come in handy, do you?"

"I'm a weapons officer, sir. I hardly think _diplomacy_ is part of my required skill set." Credit where it was due, he was putting up a convincing display of righteous indignation. Chances were, those who hadn't been doing their homework would buy this as just a groundless tease. Trip, however, _had _been doing his homework. Only he and Reed knew that they were at opposite ends of a wire actually carrying live current, and that war had just been declared.

He decided to bring this to a dignified and conclusive end. At least for the present.

"Well then, I'd recommend you leave it to the experts, Malcolm."

Jon and Travis snickered. T'Pol looked austere. Hoshi shot a look at Malcolm that mingled apprehension and concern and curiosity.

The tactical officer returned his gaze for a long second. Then the lids dropped over the grey eyes in a way that eerily resembled the temporary covering of gun-ports.

"I believe I'll confine myself to the field I'm more comfortable in, sir. If you need any advice about _handling weapons_ in the meantime, though, you know where the Armoury is."

Jon coughed. "I guess we'd better get on with this briefing. T'Pol has something interesting to tell us about this binary star."

A lift of one eyebrow said it was news to _her_. Nevertheless, she made a gallant recovery. Binary stars were, after all, a relative rarity, and there was doubtless some technical detail that could, at a push, be described as 'interesting.' And on all counts, she evidently felt that it was highly desirable to bring this conversation back to an appropriate heading. And dispose of all its deplorable subtexts thereby.

Was it just wishful thinking on his part to detect more in her tone, as she began speaking, than relief that a distasteful subject had been dropped? Vulcans had always been such a mystery to him. Now he was conscious that this particular Vulcan had begun to intrigue him.

Great. Now he had a battle on two fronts. Trying to out-think and out-shoot the ship's tactical officer on one hand, and work out his unexpectedly complex reactions to the ship's science officer on the other. And in between these, he had to keep the ship's engines singing and keep everything out of Jon's line of view.

Damnation. He never _did_ go for the easy life.


	37. The Catwalk

Water.

Water, water, water. Hot water. Piping hot running water. And _soap. _Scented and luxurious. She'd never take it for granted again.

Not to mention shampoo. Hoshi slathered handfuls of it onto her hair, sighing with relief. Finally, she could feel clean again. She couldn't ever remember an occasion when she'd felt so disgustingly grubby.

Her uniform had been consigned to the laundry chute, handled at arm's length from the moment she'd got it off. Even the repeated and vigorous application of antiperspirants and deodorants couldn't completely conceal the fact that the limited space in the catwalk simply didn't allow room for eighty-three people to bring along changes of clothes.

Naturally she hadn't been the only sufferer. Everyone aboard ship had endured the same wretched conditions, cooped up in the nacelles while they sat out the storm. Sub-Commander T'Pol in particular would have undergone the torments of the damned, considering her sense of smell was so much more acute than a human's; it was a sign of how greatly she had changed since she joined the crew that she'd borne it silently, without complaint, though she must have been close to overdosing on her nasal suppressants by the time the all-clear went.

Malcolm, on the other hand, had not borne his sufferings in silence. He'd made no secret of the fact that the lack of shower facilities in their makeshift quarters was highly unsatisfactory – irritating Trip mightily in the process. At a guess, he was reveling in a shower now too. The ship had limited water supplies, and of necessity it was rationed; she could imagine the lieutenant exhausting his share long before he was convinced he'd washed off the accumulated grime of the days cooped up in the catwalk.

_We could have shared one, to save water,_ she thought, smiling.

Then she realized what she'd thought, and the ramifications of it. Because it wasn't just water rationing that was on her mind.

Before she could get her thoughts under control, images of what could result – what _would_ result – from sharing a shower with Lieutenant Malcolm Reed flashed into her head. And she wasn't pushing them away as an aberration either.

_Too long since Risa. _She grimaced as she started rinsing. Ravi's lovemaking had been tender, reverent, gentle, as focused on discovery as on pleasure. She'd enjoyed it enormously, had sweet memories of the visit.

So – not that it was ever remotely likely to happen – what would it be like with Malcolm?

She'd spent far too many hours opposite him on the Bridge to have missed the fact that he was probably the most performance-oriented person she'd ever encountered. With a grin, she envisaged him setting up a PADD with a running report on How Long It Takes Me To Give Hoshi An Orgasm. Better not leave _that_ one lying around in the Mess by accident.

But in other respects?

It was hard to say. There were so many sides to Malcolm Reed. Prissy Brit, dedicated weapons officer, prickly perfectionist, supportive friend, paranoid security officer, patient teacher, subtle wit, fierce protector. So much lay behind the barriers that he kept between himself and the world. How far would she be allowed to approach him? What would it be like, to become intimate with a man who habitually kept others at such a distance? And what kind of a lover would he be?

On a physical level, she had to admit she found him quite attractive. Their periodic visits to Decon had given her ample opportunity to check out what was usually hidden beneath the ubiquitous Starfleet coveralls. Human nature being what it is, she'd peeked. That said, he probably had too.

She sighed, switched off the water and stepped out of the shower. The bottom line was, she was almost certainly going over all this (yet again) for nothing. Even if he was attracted to her – and a peck on the side of the mouth wasn't exactly evidence of overwhelming desire – the chances were he'd never act on it. That was another side to him: the obsessive adherence to regulations. He'd know to the last stop on the score what the position was about fraternization. True, she wasn't actually within his chain of command, but she was of a lower rank. It still wouldn't be posted up as something Starfleet would approve of.

She'd slipped his shirt into the laundry chute some days ago. At a guess he'd have had it back by now. Just as well, really. The scent of it would just complicate things. Though she could still remember it.

"Face it, Ensign," she said aloud. "You're about as likely to share a shower with Malcolm Reed as you are to go for a stroll around the hull without an EV suit. So just forget about him."

Easier said than done, however.

The silence was loud with her thoughts. And lying down on the bed wasn't going to cut it either. Better get dressed and go find something to eat.

Preferably not at the same time as Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.


	38. Dawn

"Bloody hell!"

It wasn't working. They hadn't got time for this kind of modification. The sensors still showed that the selenium isotopes would still affect the shuttle engine as soon as they came into contact with it. He'd done what he could, with Anna Hess and Mike Rostov from Engineering, to help out with their necessarily greater expertise in engineering, but he just didn't have the knowledge or the ...

Hell, time was everything. And for Trip Tucker, it was rapidly running out.

Malcolm tried to tell himself that even Trip couldn't have solved this one in the time they had. The engine had been designed to cope with a lot, but selenium was a relatively rare element and it had evidently not been included among the hazards it was thought necessary to include safeguards against.

"You did your best, sir," said Anna. The sound of the hypospanner being placed gently – so gently – on the deck plating was the sound of bitter defeat.

"There's got to be something else we can do." He leaned back against the shuttlepod's hull in despair. "I can't believe we can't modify it to cope."

_So help me God, Charles Tucker the Third, if we get you back in one piece after this I'm going to beat the crap out of you_. _We can get you out of there and you're just sitting down there frying to death because the bloke you're with can't survive the transporter. _

If the worst came to the worst, though, he had one option left.

He could transport down and stun Trip before giving the order for both of them to be transported up to the ship, leaving the Arkonian to take his chances. It would possibly be the end of his career: premeditated assault on a superior officer wasn't going to look too good on his files. The captain might, at heart, agree with what he'd done and the reasons for it, but the act wasn't something that could be condoned. He'd be court-martialled for it. Naturally this course of action would have somewhat terminal consequences for his friendship with Trip as well – in fact, he'd be lucky if Trip ever spoke to him again – but he knew Tucker too well; the American was so damned pig-headed that he'd never listen to sense if it conflicted with honour.

_Honour isn't going to look after this ship's engines. And my job is to safeguard the ship._

Trip hated the heat. He'd been in a terrible state when they'd rescued him from the desert misadventure with the captain not so long ago. It was probably only Archer's superior ability to cope with desert conditions that had saved his life on that occasion, and now he was wilfully placing it in danger again!

The Arkonians were supposed to be working on a rescue. Trip had suggested in his last transmission that he thought one of their shuttles could be modified to cope with selenium isotopes more readily than their own, and the captain had persuaded them to try. But time was ticking past – time Tucker didn't have.

_He could be dead already._

Malcolm stood up and stepped to the comm unit on the wall. "Reed to Bridge."

"Bridge here, Lieutenant."

Pathetic. He was even starting to get some kind of teenage thrill from hearing her voice.

His life on _Enterprise_ was coming apart at the seams. He was being drawn further and further into the illicit attraction towards a junior officer who probably wouldn't touch him with a bargepole anyway, and his best friend was dying down on some godforsaken moon for the sake of a point of honour to an alien he'd met less than a day ago, and who was quite probably responsible for his plight in the first place. Those weapons-fire signatures had been quite unmistakable, even through the interference on the scanners. And he knew Trip; therefore he knew who'd have fired first. _'Just like old friends', my foot._

_If he dies..._

"Any news from the Arkonians, Ensign?" His voice was steady, at any rate.

"Nothing yet, sir."

"Tell the captain we haven't had any luck with the shuttle. I'm coming back up to Tactical. There's no more I can do here."

"I'm sure you did your best, sir."

_My best wasn't good enough_. He closed the comm link without replying.

Hess and Rostov began clearing up as he left.

He walked towards the turbo-lift to return to the Bridge. His eyes were unseeing. He was watching a sun rise in a cloudless sky, and the digital reading on a thermometer climb inexorably higher.

He got off at E Deck instead.

The Armoury was silent. The hilt of the phase pistol nestled in his palm, deeply familiar.

Trip would never forgive him. But at least Trip would still be alive. Forgiveness would be of secondary importance.

"Bridge to Lieutenant Reed." The call came through as he keyed the door command.

"Reed." His voice was completely without inflection. His decision was already made.

"The Arkonians have launched their shuttle, sir. They should reach the planet in just a couple of minutes."

The rigidity went out of him in a deep shudder. _Hoshi, I could kiss you all over._ Well, that wasn't new, but at least it was for a valid reason this time.

"That's good news. Let's hope they're in time."

"It's looking good so far."

He could have said something about not tempting Fate, but at that moment he wanted so desperately to believe that he let her hope carry him along. Yes, he really was getting pathetic.

"Send them to the starboard docking port. I'll collect Phlox and meet them there with a security team." After all, they didn't know these Arkonians, except that they weren't overly friendly and didn't get on with Vulcans. It wouldn't occasion any surprise that he should want to supervise the arrival. His own personal concern wouldn't be allayed until he saw Trip safely into Sickbay and under Phlox's care, but nobody else had to know that.

"Will do, sir. Bridge out."

He replaced the phase pistol carefully in its locker.

He wasn't going to destroy a friendship today.


	39. Stigma

Lieutenant Reed looked up from the simulations board with a surprised expression.

Naturally there were occasions when his superior officer had to visit the Armoury. They'd worked in it together on many occasions when the chief engineer's expertise was called for. As a good friend, as well as a brother officer, Trip was always welcome (except, of course, on those occasions when he dropped by to exercise what he probably fondly imagined to be his wit at the Brit's expense).

On this occasion, however, he didn't look as though he'd called in either to make helpful suggestions about the weapons systems, to discuss arcane engineering issues, or even to have a go at getting a rise out of his favourite victim over what he knew, or suspected, about ongoing issues between him and Ensign Hoshi Sato.

Malcolm knew the look of a hunted man. And right now, to judge by his expression, Trip Tucker was a _very_ hunted man.

"If anyone asks, Malcolm, I'm not here, right?"

"I can't very well modify the internal sensors to make you invisible, Commander." Well, he probably could, though it would take some doing, but there were a lot of regulations that said he shouldn't – the sort of regulations that would involve formal reprimands for breaking them. And the captain would certainly demand some serious explanations if he did. Besides, if Trip wanted that kind of thing done, he had the expertise to do it himself.

The chief engineer flattened himself against the wall as though removing himself from the line of sight of anybody who might look in through the door. "I'm hopin' she can't access the ship's sensors."

"'She'?" asked Reed, puzzled.

Trip ran a hand through his already badly rumpled hair. "Feezal."

Malcolm frowned. "Phlox's wife? What have you done to upset her?"

"I haven't _upset_ her, Malcolm. I've been a total gentleman! But – geez, she's practically throwin' herself at me! In front of _Phlox!_"

"Oh, come on, Trip." _Oops, I'm on duty. That should be 'Commander'. Oh well, this isn't exactly an official conversation. _"It's probably just that she's Denobulan. They're just very friendly."

"I know the difference between _friendly_ and _flirty._" Tucker scowled. "She's a married woman, for God's sake, and he's the MO on my ship! Considerin' how often I end up in Sickbay, the last thing I want to do is hand him a grudge – even if I was the sort of guy who mixes it with married women. Which I'm not!" he added defiantly.

This was far too good an opportunity to pass up. With only a fleeting pang of compunction, Malcolm began turning the thumbscrews. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

The other man blinked rather suspiciously at him. "Granted."

He coughed, shifted position slightly to look uneasy, and said with a well-simulated air of concern, "Well ... actually, I think you may be becoming slightly delusional, Commander."

"Whaddaya mean, '_delusional_'?" The scowl was back, but now aimed in his direction, as opposed to thin air.

"Well, I don't think you've ever recovered from getting pregnant without knowing it, sir." He folded his arms, and kept his face straight with an effort. "Now you're subconsciously thinking every woman who tries to be friendly with you is trying to impregnate you."

"Are you tryin' to be funny, Loo-tenant?" Trip glared at him.

_Yes, and I've got you right by the balls. Now all I have to do is twist. _"You must admit, sir, on the surface, it's not very likely. I'm sure Mrs Phlox is a perfectly respectable woman. She's hardly likely to be pursuing one of her husband's fellow-officers with dishonourable intentions. Especially when the doctor is actually present."

"But she..."

"I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding on your part, sir." His voice was as smooth as cream. "Perfectly understandable. In the circumstances."

The chief engineer opened his mouth and then shut it again. His glare doubled in wattage. "I am not _imaginin'_ that Feezal is after my butt!"

"Doctor Phlox was kind enough to introduce her to me. Very pleasant woman. But I must admit she didn't give _me_ the impression of being ... randomly amorous."

"_You_ weren't the one who was tryin' to install that new microscope and keep your damned distance from a determined woman tryin' to get into your coverall with you at the same time!" hooted Trip.

"Well, I don't know, sir. If it's got to that point I really would consider having a word with Doctor Phlox."

"I can't go tellin' the man that his wife's tryin' it on with me!"

"That's not what I meant, sir. It was more that if you're that badly mentally affected, he really ought to know. If it gets any worse, it might affect your performance in Engineering. You might start believing members of your staff are trying to make inappropriate advances to you as well." He knew he was a past master at the limpid stare of innocence; now he delivered it at maximum yield. "I believe it's even making you imagine there's some sort of totally inappropriate relationship between myself and Ensign Sato! I'm sure if the doctor was aware of the problem he could do something about it."

"Malcolm," said Trip dangerously.

"Sir?"

"If you don't quit your smart-ass act, so help me God I'm gonna stuff you into one of your torpedoes and shoot you into space!"

He recoiled theatrically. "If it's leading you into making inappropriate threats against junior officers as well as suspecting respectable females are making inappropriate advances to you, sir, I really do respectfully suggest – "

"An' _I_ suggest you and your damned advice both go take a flyin' leap outta the nearest airlock!" Too exasperated to endure the wilful misunderstanding for a moment longer, Tucker whisked around and made a rapid exit. Evidently the threat of being ambushed by Feezal was preferable to enduring the torture that his friend was gleefully inflicting on him.

Malcolm waited until the sound of footsteps had retreated up the corridor.

Then, and only then, did he start to laugh.


	40. Cease Fire

_Well, that was an entertaining afternoon_. Hoshi pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a gym suit. _We got to sit between two sets of ships ready to knock hell out of each other, and threatened to fire on all of them. Well, Malcolm would have enjoyed _that_ for as long as it lasted._

Which probably wouldn't have been very long. _Enterprise_ didn't exactly pack that much fire-power. Still, Trip had been acting captain, and the tactical officer had prepared to carry out his orders, suicidal though such an act would have been. The grey eyes had been wide, but the fingers on the weapons systems steady and purposeful.

It was just as well that the call from the planet – Weytahn or Paan Mokar, depending on whether you were Andorian or Vulcan – had come through at that particular moment. Otherwise a fire-fight would almost certainly have broken out in which _Enterprise_ would have been involved, probably with fatal results. Even if she'd survived, the diplomatic ramifications would have been appalling. Captain Archer had been summoned to help mediate between two alien species who'd been at each other's throats for years, and it certainly didn't need his deputy throwing Starfleet weapons fire into the mix just to make the whole situation even more complicated. Hoshi had understood Trip's actions, just as the rest of the bridge crew had, but that didn't make it any less scary.

So she was glad when her duty shift ended and she could retreat to her quarters. She'd had a shower and meant to read a book for a while, but somehow she couldn't settle to the story. She was too antsy to concentrate. Maybe a little work-out in the gym would help to calm her down. And it would give her an appetite for dinner, too.

She commed her friend Liz Cutler. "Hey, how about meeting me in the gym? And we can have dinner afterwards, catch up on the scuttlebutt."

"Sure!" Hoshi could picture the pleased grin at the other end. It had been some days since they'd met up. "I just have this report to finish. Give me five minutes to get that done, and then I'll see you there in another five."

"Fine with me." She closed the comm and picked up her book again. It was interesting enough to hold her for another few minutes.

* * *

"Hey, how're you doing?" Liz gave her a peck on the cheek as they met up outside the gymnasium. "Had a busy day up there on the Bridge?"

The Tactical Alert would, of course, have informed the whole ship's crew that danger threatened. Liz was equally aware that there was a limit to what Hoshi as a bridge officer could reveal of the reasons for it. Her question was therefore just a generalized inquiry, and she expected nothing more than a generalized answer.

Hoshi smiled rather wanly. "It got a little insane." She rolled her shoulders. "But now I just want to work some of the kinks out of my neck. And my back gets really stiff sitting at that console all day."

Liz nodded, clearly aware and accepting that the subject had been turned. "Fine with me. And while we're at it I can fill you in on what happened in the lab yesterday afternoon..."

The two of them turned towards the gym door, but before Liz could thumb the door control it was activated from the inside.

Lieutenant Reed appeared in the doorway. He stopped suddenly in surprise. "Ensign. Crewman."

"Lieutenant." Hoshi had almost plowed into him. If she'd taken another step before the door opened she wouldn't have been able to stop in time.

They were just centimeters apart. He'd obviously been working hard in the gym, and under the blue tank top his muscular body was glossy with sweat. Suddenly her world was full of the hot male smell of him, overlaid with the spicy scent she could still remember from his shirt. And his eyes … at this proximity, his eyes were so compelling, so mesmerizing….

"Ensign." His voice sounded almost strangled in his throat. He took a step backwards, breaking the spell. Otherwise – Hoshi thought afterwards – Liz might have been an astonished witness to something she certainly wouldn't have expected to see. The ship's self-defense expert would have suffered a serious assault at extremely close quarters.

But would he have resisted?

The color rose in his face. He glanced at Liz and then looked aside. His embarrassment was obvious. "Ladies," he said stiffly, and stepped backwards again to allow them to enter, as a gentleman and an officer should.

Hoshi walked forward, finding in the process that her knees were trembling. She couldn't trust herself to answer. With any luck he'd interpret the nod as thanks.

Liz was saying something jokey about the Tactical Alert. Malcolm answered politely.

She listened to the armed neutrality of his voice. His barriers were up. Unbreakable. Nobody would reach him now.

The door hissed across the sound of his retreat. But she'd heard enough, she'd seen enough. For that single blazing, unguarded second, she'd seen straight into him.

It wasn't a question of _if._

It was a question of _when._


	41. Future Tense

"Suppose you could look into some future book and find out the name of the woman you're going to marry. Would you want to know it?"

_Now there's a sixty-four-million-dollar-question if I ever heard it._

Malcolm had evaded the question when Trip asked it, turning it aside with an easy jest about it saving him loads of awkward 'first dates'. Nevertheless the discussion had continued, and the chief engineer had turned it into a surprisingly thought-provoking one.

If you found out whom you were 'supposed' to marry, would you marry them – and if so for what reason? Love? Lust? Fate? Desperation?

And if you didn't, how would it affect the future? What depended on you doing what you were 'supposed' to do? Was there such a thing as the future, given how dependent it was on so many variables? Wouldn't the mere fact of someone or something returning to the past instantly destroy the future they'd come from, or was that future dependent on their returning to the past and changing what would have happened if they hadn't?

These kinds of questions left him floundering. T'Pol had said often enough that Vulcans didn't believe in the concept of time travel, and given all the loops of possibility and probability he could sympathise with them. Still, unless he and Trip had been the joint victims of some kind of induced hallucination, the ship currently residing in the launch bay had already proved that it could circumvent everything their civilisation 'knew' about the laws of physics. The inside of an object 'could not' be larger than the outside of it. And yet the inside of this mysterious craft _was_ larger than the outside of it – by some considerable measure. Though that in itself was an irrelevance. Once the law of relative sizes was breached at all, _by how much_ became purely academic.

There were, of course, appealing sides to time-travel. He would like – very much – to return to the stirring episodes of England's history, particularly (as he'd mentioned to Trip) the Spanish Armada. But between wishing he could witness it, and the risk of actually doing so and corrupting the future by some ill-advised action, there lay an unbridgeable gulf. By definition, he couldn't change the future in which he existed to the extent where he no longer existed, because otherwise he couldn't have gone back and ...

_Oh, for Heaven's sake._

He focussed on the weapons console again. It was all very well getting tied up in metaphysical speculation, but the enemies who had already signified their determination to get hold of that mysterious craft in the launch bay were not by any definition metaphysical. It was all too easy to predict that having failed to obtain the thing by bluster and threats they'd gone off to recruit reinforcements, and when they had them they'd be back again. That was what he had to concentrate on now. The ship was racing towards the _Tal'kir_ as fast as the warp engine could drive her, but there was no saying from which direction the next attack would come.

So far, the stellar expanse around them was empty. So far. But the Suliban ships were cloaked. At any moment they could materialise out of apparently innocent space. And there wouldn't be much time to react when they did. At least the ship was running on Tactical Alert; the hull was already polarised, the weapons fully on standby. That would buy him precious seconds when the attack came. As it invariably would...

Still, though he tried desperately to dismiss it, the question returned to him. "Suppose you could look into some future book and find out the name of the woman you're going to marry. Would you want to know it?"

His gaze strayed for just a second across the bridge.

He recalled it with some savagery. _Eyes on your station. _No time for metaphysics, no time for wishful bloody thinking either. And especially not for recalling that moment in the gym doorway, when she'd been so close to him, so close, her beautiful eyes wide, her mouth just parted in surprise and the jasmine smell of her perfume all around him; a moment that his mind had used to furnish him with a dozen increasingly erotic scenarios as he struggled to sleep, and that haunted him even now.

Crewman Cutler from Exobiology had been right beside her. He'd often seen the two of them together; clearly they were close friends. Her presence as he and Hoshi all but collided had been – fortunate? Or disastrous? He might never know. What he did know was that it was the only thing that had stopped him. Surprise had achieved what nothing else could have done, and his defences had finally been exposed for the pitiable things they were. At last he had to face up to his own desperate plight.

He wanted Hoshi Sato.

But at that moment the warning lights he'd been waiting for blinked up on the long-range sensors. In the same instant a swift movement from T'Pol monitoring her own sensors confirmed the danger.

The Suliban were back.

And the issue of himself and Hoshi would have to wait a little longer.

If they both survived.


	42. Canamar

"The ship appears to have been satisfactorily disabled." T'Pol's voice was calm. "I suggest that you take command of the boarding party in person, Lieutenant."

"With pleasure, Sub-Commander."

There was a note of venom in Reed's voice as he rose from his place at Tactical, clearly well-satisfied with the damage inflicted on the small craft that had come to dock with the prison transport. It had been so out-gunned by _Enterprise_'s weaponry that it would have been easier for him to have blasted it out of the sky than inflict the extremely specific damage on it that was required. Nevertheless his shots had been precise to a point. The hapless ship was now drifting in the NX's mighty shadow, ready to be boarded.

The transport itself was still headed for Tamaal, presumably expecting a visit from the new arrivals. There was no time to be lost if that was still to happen on schedule.

The plan had been laid in haste. So much depended on what was actually happening inside that transport. The fact that it hadn't responded to hails was deeply worrying.

Hoshi watched the tactical officer stride towards the turbo-lift. He radiated confident purpose. It had been obvious since they'd found the crippled shuttlecraft floating abandoned in space that Malcolm felt personally outraged by the fact that somebody had dared to lay violent hands on the captain and Trip. When Phlox had relayed the information about their blood being on the bulkheads, his face had fairly blanched with rage. Now, somebody was going to be _extremely_ sorry.

But if something went wrong...

"Permission to visit Sickbay, Sub-Commander," she said suddenly. "I just need something for a headache."

The Vulcan regarded her with calm compassion. "Permission granted, Ensign. Please be quick."

"I will."

The turbo-lift arrived just as she reached it. She and Malcolm got into it, and took up station decorously at either side of the small space.

She risked a glance. He was staring into space, preoccupied. Doubtless going over the plan, mapping out his response to every possible eventuality. Quite possibly he hadn't even registered the fact that she was there. When a member of his ship's crew was in danger, he was as single-minded as a hunting predator.

But two could play at that game.

The instant the display told her the lift had passed D Deck she hurled herself at him.

He really must have been preoccupied. She slammed him back against the wall and kissed him like she was trying to push her tongue down the back of his throat and suck all the oxygen out of his body at the same time.

For a split second he was frozen, stunned, merely accepting. Then he reacted.

Boy, did he react.

The kiss was all she'd dreamed it would be. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. His body against hers was made of muscle and whipcord, but his mouth was gentle, for all its hunger; his eyes were closed, so that she wanted to think he was drinking in the moment just as she was.

Then he threw her off again just as the door opened. There could be _anyone_ outside waiting to get in.

Luckily, there wasn't. Even with their best efforts, it was probable that neither of them looked at their professional best right then.

He was headed for the launch bay. The boarding team he'd selected would be waiting for him there. She, on the other hand, had to go to Sickbay, to be treated for her entirely fictitious headache. Though it wasn't a headache she was suffering from right now.

He looked at her just before he stepped out of the lift. The pupils of his eyes were dilated with desire. "We'll discuss this further at a later time, Ensign," he said softly.

Ooh, the promise in that voice. It made her knees go even weaker than they were already.

"I hope your headache gets better soon." He threw the words back over his shoulder as he strode off towards the launch bay.

She watched him go. Her legs were shaking. Headache? What headache? _It's better already, Malcolm. But you'd better not take too long about rescuing the captain and Trip. I've got another problem now, and you've got the cure for it._

He disappeared around the junction in the corridor. She heaved a sigh. _To hell with the transport ship. He can board me any time. _


	43. The Crossing

He came back to himself gasping for breath, suffocating in air like a landed fish.

"Breathe slowly and deeply, Lieutenant." Phlox's voice was encouraging. "You'll be fine in just a moment."

He was on the floor in his quarters, close to the door as though he'd been trying to escape. Trying to get out, trying to find oxygen. His lungs ached. There was still adrenaline coursing through his body, making him twitchy with the urge to hit or run.

"I was back in England," he croaked. He rolled over onto his back to see if breathing was easier that way. It didn't seem to help much. He could still feel the grass, wet with dew, sparkling in the low early morning sun. His eyes were dazzled with it.

The cottage. The windfall apples – he could smell them, lying crushed underfoot in the long grass, the sour unripe tang of them on the back of his throat. He could hear the blackbird scolding his approach, tick-ticking like an idling Geiger counter, and the thin sweet sub-song of a robin. _Oh, to be in England..._ The water ran over his hands, cool and swift, and the water dapples danced over the gravel of the stream-bed.

The cottage. The back door standing open, letting in the sweet June air. The roses (running riot, at a guess, for want of a hand to prune them hard enough), spilling their fragrance into the lane over the dry stone wall. The carved balustrade of the stairway that led up to the sunny landing, smelling of honey because of the beeswax polish that had been rubbed into it down the years; he could feel the smoothness of it under his hands as he ascended, polished to satin by generations of hands that caressed it as he did now. There was an old clothes-chest under the central window, with a padded lid worn shabby, and love-knots carved into its sides. Once, on a visit when he was little, he'd daringly opened it, hoping to find treasure, but there were only old blankets laid away with herbs to deter moths. The only treasure had been a little china bell with the clapper missing, right at the very bottom. There had been a picture of a pretty lady on a swing on one side of it, and a picture of a spray of forget-me-nots on the other. He'd recognised them because they grew wild in the orchard, seemingly quite at home in the long grass.

The fact that he was on _Enterprise_ was so utterly incomprehensible that for a moment he was absolutely convinced that he was dreaming. A singularly lucid dream, it was true, but a dream nevertheless. How could it be anything else, when he could smell the apples in a Cornish orchard?

* * *

Half an hour later he was back in his quarters, released from Sickbay to resume his duties. The chief of which was to go over the security tapes of the period when he'd been incapacitated.

It hadn't taken him long to discover that the Wisp which had taken over his body had apparently been taken over in its turn by the hormones it contained.

Presumably, incorporeal beings had little experience of dealing with the continuous bombardment of sensation that was part of being human. The one who'd occupied Trip had been overwhelmed by the requirement to ingest food, and the ability to taste what it was eating.

The one who'd taken over _his_ body, on the other hand...

That brief moment in the turbo-lift with Hoshi had proved infuriatingly difficult to follow up. Fickle fate had so far contrived to thwart them at every turn. Going to her cabin uninvited would have been a step too far, would have been a move he wasn't ready to make – always assuming she would welcome him being so forward. The presence of an article of furniture beginning with 'B' might be one temptation too far for his good resolutions. Though if his luck didn't change soon, he was getting to the point where he'd have to do _something _drastic.

And that state of hormone-fuelled, frustrated lust had been the one into which the Wisp had descended. Not having human conditioning to apply a brake to its resultant, frantic urge to mate, it had gone all over the ship leering at female crew-members and propositioning them in lifts (presumably some memory trace of Hoshi had lingered).

And not content with that, it had crowned its achievements by singling out Sub-Commander T'Pol, presumably as the woman exhibiting the most noticeable female sexual-maturity signals in the ship, and making grossly ungentlemanly suggestions to her in her own cabin.

He buried his face in his hands. He was going to have to go out of here up to the Bridge and somehow _look _the Vulcan in the _face_. And he didn't know how he was going to do it.

It wasn't that he didn't find her attractive. He was as responsive to female attributes as any other red-blooded male, and T'Pol's attributes were on the scale of 'eye-watering'. But he'd never been in any doubt that the prospect of anything happening between her and him was a total zero. He regarded her in somewhat of the light of a pin-up girl – both sexual and unattainable. Never in a million years would he ever have even attempted to make a move on her. For one thing, he preferred his bollocks still attached, and preferably intact.

Luckily for the Wisp (and indeed for him, now he'd regained possession), the First Officer had behaved with remarkable restraint. His genitals had remained both intact and in their original position. But his humiliation was all but complete.

_Why couldn't it have been Hoshi instead of T'Pol?_ He almost howled with vexation. At least then he'd have been able to walk on to the bridge with a happy smile instead of sidling on to it blushing like a bloody flamingo. And as if T'Pol wasn't enough, there were all the other crew-women he'd accosted. They'd be giving him the sideways eye every time they walked past him in the corridor. While as for the lift ... well, for the foreseeable future, if there was any other woman in it than Hoshi when it arrived, he'd bloody well use the access shafts instead.

Well, there was only one thing for it. Better get up to the Bridge and get it over and done with. And he'd better have some kind of speech of apology ready. Strictly speaking he probably didn't owe one, because it hadn't been 'him' who'd been responsible, but he felt absurdly tainted by association. Doubtless T'Pol would point that out, but he'd still feel better afterwards. It had, after all, been his hormones that had been responsible.

Yes. And talking of hormones...

Hoshi's behaviour hadn't exactly been irreproachable either. Admittedly she hadn't gone around leering at people and propositioning the captain, but she'd attacked poor Phlox, who was probably the most innocuous bloke on the ship, and hardly deserved that kind of treatment. _And_ if she hadn't lunged at him in the lift that day his hormones wouldn't have been in this state to begin with.

Well. That might be a slight exaggeration. Even if she hadn't, they'd still be _pretty_ bad.

So at least some of this was her fault. And it was becoming increasingly urgent that he demonstrate to her in detail exactly what a serious effect she had on his hormones, preferably with a view to getting something done about it. Besides, she appeared to be suffering from the same complaint. Hopefully her hormone imbalance would require treatment too. He was ready, willing, able and _amazingly _eager to oblige.

Once he'd got the apology over and done with, and returned to more or less his usual colour, and made sure that no imminent crises demanded his attention, he was going to set his mind to ways and means. After all, he was the ship's tactical officer. About time he started applying his tactical mind to his own problems as well as everyone else's.

Hoshi Sato, _stand by to be boarded_.

And preferably, _bloody soon._


	44. Judgment

_"Give me covering fire!"_

_"Belay that order!"_ Sub-Commander T'Pol seized the blue-clad shoulder in front of her. "Lieutenant. You would be putting yourself at unnecessary risk for nothing. They've gone."

"They've got the captain!" he yelled. "We have to follow them!"

"Sensors show transporter activity beyond the perimeter. The captain's bio-sign has disappeared. These are merely a diversion, no more."

"We have to get back to the shuttle," snapped Commander Tucker. The streets around them were deserted. Their hosts had scattered and run, terrified by the ambush and the exchange of fire. The tumble of empty packing cases and rubbish that had provided some kind of concealment was inadequate protection at best; if the foe was really intent on killing, they'd be dead already.

"So much for bloody protection from this lot!" The lieutenant loosed off a couple of additional shots in the direction of their concealed enemies. To judge by his expression, it was as much in frustrated rage as to encourage them to keep their heads down while the Starfleet personnel retreated.

"The Kyevv are a peaceful community. They would hardly have the temperament, or the means, to interfere in an armed conflict."

This reasoned response did not seem to have the required effect. When they reached the shuttle and took off at maximum speed for _Enterprise_, the tactical officer was still breathing fury.

"If you ask me, the whole thing was a set-up," he snarled. "It's just a bit too much of a coincidence! We get an invitation from people we've never heard of, right on the edge of Klingon space, and the next thing you know we've got two Birds of Prey appearing out of nowhere and they know exactly where the captain is!"

"Our previous encounter with the _Bortas_ was some time ago," said T'Pol mildly.

"And Klingons have long memories for a grudge. They've got what they wanted! Now we have to go get him back!"

"We shall do everything possible, Lieutenant. But _Enterprise_ is no match for the combined firepower of those two Klingon vessels. On this occasion, force will not help us. We would only risk killing the captain if we pursued and opened fire."

"There they go." Trip was at the helm. He pointed, quite unnecessarily, to where two ships had streaked away to warp.

Lieutenant Reed hissed something under his breath. His hands on the console balled momentarily into fists.

The sub-commander eyed him with some concern. Although he would naturally be extremely agitated by the events of the past half-hour, and determined to set matters right as soon as possible, this display of overt and unreasoning aggression was rather unlike him.

"Are you feeling well, Mister Reed?" she asked. "You did not sustain any injury?"

He blinked. It was obvious that he was reconfiguring his instinctive reply.

"No. I'm absolutely fine. Just a bit – angry," he answered after a moment.

She inclined her head. "That's understandable."

Commander Tucker chuckled, without much humor. "What he means is, he'd like to punch the hell out of somebody. Come to think of it, so would I."

"Anger will only cloud your judgment," she observed. "In such a situation as this, cool heads are more likely to achieve our objective than hot tempers."

"Get me behind my weapons console, Sub-Commander, and give me something to aim at, and I'll guarantee you I'll out-cold an ice cube," Reed said grimly.

"Unfortunately, it seems that for the present you may have to wait." The shuttle rocked gently as the docking clamp took hold.

"At least tell me that as soon as we're on board we'll set off in pursuit!"

"That would be extremely ill-advised. It would take us directly into Klingon space and be regarded as an act of outright aggression. We must respond through the diplomatic channels. Starfleet and the High Command will have to enter a formal protest to the Klingon Empire."

"So they just stroll down and kidnap the captain and we can't do _anything?"_ demanded the lieutenant incredulously.

"We can start a war over it, if you like," interjected Trip drily. "Malcolm, I know you'd like to race after those ships with all guns blazin'. If I thought we had a snowball's chance in hell of getting' the cap'n back that way, I'd agree with ya. But chances are, they're just waitin' for us to play into their hands. Jon won't thank us for endangerin' the ship tryin' to save him."

Reed said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes.

There was silence in the craft while they went through the post-flight checks. As soon as these were completed, the Englishman was the first out of the door. "Please don't forget the decontamination protocols," T'Pol called after him.

"Check." He didn't look back, but raced up the stairway like a man trying vainly to outrun his anger, and disappeared from view.

There was a slight pause. Commander Tucker was evidently waiting politely for her to stand up first and precede him out of the shuttle.

"Commander, may I ask you what might be considered a personal question?"

The chief engineer's eyebrows rose. "Sure."

"Do you consider yourself to be on friendly terms with Lieutenant Reed?"

Tucker shrugged. "I guess. He's not the easiest guy to get to know, but I think he'd call me a buddy."

"Then you might be the best person on the ship to be able to answer this question." She paused, for so long that Trip's eyebrows rose in curiosity. She was aware that Humans became uncomfortable when this subject arose. Still, she had to persevere. It was important that she understand what motivated the crew's actions. She blinked once and asked, as baldly as she could,

"Do you consider he is suffering from unresolved sexual tension?"

* * *

**All reviews and comments appreciated!**


	45. Horizon

_**Author's Note: This episode contains adult material and should carry a T / M rating. Please do not proceed if you are under age or offended by scenes of a sexual nature.**  
_

* * *

"So, has he persuaded you to go along to watch _Frankenstein _tonight, Ensign?"

The query was couched in the most neutral tones. Malcolm had noted the topic of conversation as he went past the table a couple of moments earlier. Travis was enthusiastic, despite the fact that since he would have transferred to the _Horizon_ by then he'd have to miss it. Hoshi was noticeably less so.

There was nothing out of the way about his joining them at the breakfast table. He often did so. Even though of late he'd tried to do it a little less, mainly because it made keeping his mind on his job afterwards that much more difficult. He was beginning to sympathise with that old chap in the Bible who was doomed to see the Promised Land but never set foot on it. Or a hand. Or anything else, come to that.

However, Trip Tucker had, quite inadvertently, given him an opportunity. And if Hoshi was as quick on the uptake as he hoped she was, his luck might be about to change.

"I'm not sure." She grimaced. "It's really not my sort of thing."

"How can you say that?" Travis's eyes opened wide. "It's an absolute classic!"

"I think Hoshi's tastes run to more ... challenging pursuits." A swift glance under his lids. _Contact._ "Perhaps you'd care to take a look at this instead. I believe it contains some particularly interesting dialects from Levennar VI. One of my contacts visited recently and I asked him to send me any linguistic data he could find."

"Oh, I've heard so much about them! Thank you!" She took the chip in its protective case with an expression of delight that could conceivably be attributed to interest in a new language. Or perhaps it had something to do with a very small scrap of paper carefully inserted into the casing, on the side which she casually turned down and kept out of view as she slid it into one of the pockets of her coverall.

"I guess you won't be watching the movie then," said Travis resignedly. "Sure seems like a waste."

"Oh, I don't think so." Malcolm was watching Hoshi's mouth, which was now wearing a tiny, knowing smile. "I'm sure she'll find something just as enjoyable to do. If not even more so."

God, this was going to be the longest duty shift in the history of Starfleet.

* * *

The working day wound with agonizing slowness to its close. Travis departed aboard the _Horizon_, and _Enterprise _resumed its course towards the dying planet, its scanning buoys ready to deploy in order to record the doomed world's death throes for posterity. Possibly it was just as well that nothing untoward had occurred that required innovative thinking or swift reactions at the Tactical Station, because Malcolm's mind was, not surprisingly, elsewhere. He hardly dared glance across the Bridge.

Had she read the note?

And if she had?

Would she?

* * *

Ten minutes after the start of the movie, he slid into the Observation lounge. It was in darkness, and deserted. He'd been virtually certain that it would be, but if necessary he'd had cards to play that would have emptied it. Some obscure security or safety issue – who would dare contradict him? His three senior officers were at the movie. He had security codes no-one on the ship could break, if he chose to use them.

It wasn't clear yet whether he would need to.

He sat down in one of the chairs, out of direct line of sight of the doors. He found that his hands were trembling slightly.

He'd been listening for her footsteps, knowing he'd recognise them out of anyone's on board, but even so he hardly heard them. They hesitated for a moment on the other side of the door.

Then she came in.

It took a few seconds for her eyesight to acclimatise to the darkness. Then she came swiftly towards him, before he could get to his feet.

After so long, words were unnecessary. Her hair was loose, and fell in a scented curtain around him as their lips met.

He'd expected her to be uncertain, had drilled himself to the necessity of restraint, of respect. He had high hopes for an hour of high-octane snogging at least, and after the starvation of the past months that in itself would be a feast for the senses. But it seemed that Hoshi had her own agenda.

Restraint evidently wasn't on it.

Sensations went off like fire-crackers from one end of his torso to the other as her hands claimed it. She released him long enough to pull off his tracksuit top. They both fumbled like over-eager teenagers with the buttons of her blouse. She wasn't wearing anything underneath it. The starlight from the viewing port illuminated her perfection.

Some belated remnant of caution touched him, and he spared a hand to activate the remote device on the table beside him; the control panel beside the door glowed briefly and went dark. The other hand was busy exploring what he'd fantasized about for so long, slipping over her naked flesh just as hers was over his. His mouth followed it.

She tugged at the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms.

He swallowed. _Restraint. Respect._ Was she doing this because she thought he ... expected it?

"You ... we don't have to," he managed to whisper. It wasn't what his body was screaming, but he needed to be sure. "If you'd rather wait..."

"I've waited long enough."

It was all the assurance his hips needed. They complied with alacrity.

He watched her shed her own tracksuit pants. He was aching with desire. It wasn't what he'd planned for their first time, but he wasn't going to refuse.

He slid a little lower in the seat, to make it easier for her. He watched her straddle him. She leaned forward again and kissed him passionately.

"_Want me, Malcolm?" _she breathed.

"Yes. God. Yes. Please."

She took his long, shuddering moan into her mouth, and began rocking back and forward. He gripped her hips, closed his eyes and tried to think about weapons calibrations tables, about _t'ai chi_, about stripping down a malfunctioning phase rifle, about anything other than what was happening. He'd waited for this too long. He wanted to watch, but if he opened his eyes he'd lose it. _Oh, God, oh God. Hoshi. Oh God. HoshiHoshiHoshi. _

_"Can't–!" _he choked out. _'Wait'_ would have emerged as a scream.

_"You don't have to."_ Her steady grinding became frantic, uncoordinated. Her breath was coming in short, hard gasps.

He opened his eyes. His hands clamped, and he lost control, became a machine driven by the craving he'd suppressed for so long. Wave after wave of shattering pleasure crashed over him, until it was as much as he could do to stop himself from bellowing like a rutting stag. Pinpricks of pain from Hoshi's fingernails clawing at him skittered across his consciousness and left no memory.

Slowly his senses spiralled back to him, finding him in a state of trembling, elated exhaustion. He pulled her down to him, kissing her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her ears, stroking her quivering body.

"Not ... quite what I was planning," he gasped. "I ... if you'll let me, I'll do ... better next time."

"_Let_ you?" she purred, wriggling against him sensually. "Malcolm, I'm going to _make_ you."

He pulled his head back for a moment to study her expression. She'd been a mouse when she'd come on board, a scared little girl with no understanding of the terrors she'd have to conquer. But the mouse had finally roared. And he had every intention of making her roar again. And again. And again.

And he intended to start _right now_.

* * *

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	46. The Breach

"You will need to rest this ankle as much as possible, Ensign. Fortunately, Commander Tucker did an excellent job of applying the temporary support strapping. Your injuries could otherwise have been severely aggravated during the process of extracting you out of the cave." Trip felt a wave of relief roll over him at Phlox's words; he'd practiced emergency first aid often enough in simulations, but this was the first time he'd had to treat an actual fracture in the field.

"For beginners, you sure did a fine job with getting us all out, sirs. " The young helmsman smiled gratefully, if a little wanly, at the two officers who'd had to help him, as well as the three rescued Denobulan geologists, from the cave system. They'd accompanied him to Sickbay to see him safely bestowed into care.

Phlox finished applying the cast to Travis's ankle and straightened up. "You have no injuries of your own that I should take a look at?" he asked, causing the two to shift uneasily with the memory of too many visits to Sickbay that had been longer than intended. "I know you cleared Decon, but we can't be too careful."

"Absolutely fine," said Malcolm, a little too quickly. "All I need is a shower and I'll be as right as rain." Trip concurred with this, so the doctor nodded and gave them both permission to leave, adding that the captain had told him they were both to have the rest of their shift off to give them extra time to rest and recover.

A faint, relieved sigh from his companion as they made their escape made the chief engineer grin slightly. "In a hurry, Malcolm?" he asked blandly.

"In a hurry to get out of these clothes." The lieutenant grimaced. "I think I brought half the dust of that cave up with me in my uniform."

"I can imagine," said Trip solemnly. "Gotta get yourself all shiny and tidy for someone special, hey?"

Malcolm stopped. The gray gaze turned to him. It was obvious that Reed was trying hard to look bemused. "Did you hit your head at some point down there, Commander?"

"Quite a few times," he said cheerfully. "But it didn't knock me out of rememberin' that you've suddenly stopped turnin' up for Movie Nights lately. And strangely enough, you're not the only one."

"Perhaps if you put something on that was more worth watching, I might reconsider my decision." The lieutenant's arms folded across his chest, revealingly defensive in this situation. "But as for who else apparently shares my more elevated tastes in cinematography, I'm sure I don't see why you think that's anything to do with me."

"Must be just coincidence I haven't seen Hoshi at them lately either, then," remarked Trip, watching his victim closely. "And the weird thing is, last time Liz Cutler was lookin' for her to see if she wanted to watch it and she couldn't find her anywhere."

Malcolm shrugged. "She obviously didn't look in the right place. But why you should think that's anything to do with me..."

"Well – if you say so." A disbelieving grin. "So I take it I won't be seein' you tonight either. It's _The Italian Job. _Now I'd'a thought that was right up your alley. A British classic."

"It isn't as if I haven't seen it before, Commandah."

"If it was _The Japanese Job _I guess you'd be more likely to turn up," murmured Trip in his ear.

He'd managed it. He'd actually managed to make Malcolm Reed blush. Fierily, guiltily red.

Luckily for him, they'd reached the junction where their respective paths parted, and the lieutenant could beat a hasty, if still dignified, retreat. But there was still one coda that could be added to their conversation.

Trip's parents were the proud possessors of a number of recordings from the 1920s and '30s. He'd grown up listening to them, and the lyrics of most of them were engraved on his memory.

He was a good singer, and now his dulcet tones echoed down the corridor.

"If I had a talking picture of you-ooo,

I would run it every time I felt blu-hoooo,

I would sit there in the gloom, of my lonely little room,

And applaud each time you whispered, 'I love you; love you..."

By this time Malcolm was less walking than running. Trip upped the volume so as not to spare him the second verse.

"On the screen the moment you came in view-hooo,

We would talk the whole thing over, we two-hooo,

I would give ten shows a day, and a midnight matinee,

If I had a talking picture of you!"

* * *

**All reviews and comments appreciated!**


	47. Cogenitor

_Oh. My. God._

Malcolm reached the sanctuary of his room and leaned back against the door panel.

"What _is_ it with my luck?" he asked himself bitterly. When he was single – safely, if not satisfactorily, single, unattached and solitary, females of every species had gravitated towards Trip as though he'd developed some kind of sophisticated magnetic field that only affected oestrogen, whereas he himself might as well have been invisible.

Now that he had Hoshi, and was therefore unavailable, the cloak of invisibility had dropped off his shoulders and the magnetic field had suddenly and magically transferred itself to him. Exactly when he least needed it to.

Well, yes, he'd flirted with his opposite number from the Vissian ship when he'd taken her to the Mess Hall. Veylo was an attractive woman; it had been rather hard to resist the temptation to respond, when she so obviously found him interesting. Secure in the fact of his ultimately good intentions, and wishing to make it clear to a certain Commander Tucker that whatever conclusions he might have drawn about the state of play between Lieutenant Malcolm Reed and Ensign Hoshi Sato were _totally_ erroneous, he'd allowed himself to enjoy the game of seduction. He wasn't in earnest, after all. It was just harmless fun, and he hadn't realised until he was fairly launched into it how he'd missed the subtle game that he'd learned to play so well back on Earth. He'd never had any problems with _getting_ into relationships; _staying_ in one had always been his problem, once the woman in it with him came to the inevitable realisation that he was an emotional train-wreck. And whatever was going on with Veylo, it was never going to come under the heading of 'permanent' anyway, so that problem was never going to rear its ugly head. He was simply enjoying himself, rediscovering the art of racy double-entendres that she was just as expert in as he was. What were the chances she saw the matter any differently? Sharing a bit of cheese didn't qualify as adultery.

But things had taken a dramatic turn for the awkward during the tour of the Armoury.

He'd been – well, yes, perhaps a bit irked by the discovery that the weapons he regarded as so modern and up-to-date were apparently 'quaint' by Vissian standards. He'd hoped that showing her the phase cannon assembly might go some way towards balancing the equation; the phase cannon was, after all, the top end of Starfleet technology. He had no intention of revealing classified information, but to his eyes there was still a lot to be proud of in that beautiful, deadly machinery.

And that was when she'd sprung it on him. She wanted to sleep with him. Except that 'sleep' would be only the final item on the agenda.

He'd been so shocked he'd straightened up without thinking and almost stunned himself on a coolant pipe just above his head. This apparently hadn't changed her mind.

According to human 'mating customs' as T'Pol would doubtless have termed them, 'dinner' was the next step. Followed, if both parties were agreeable, by 'bed'. He was extremely taken aback by the discovery that the Vissians did things the other way around. If he wanted the honour of eating with Veylo, he had to sleep with her first. Well. _Not_ sleep with her. God, why didn't he just say it outright? Shag her.

No regulations. No need to tiptoe around the corridors, peering round corners like an intruder on his own ship and slipping into his own cabin with a junior officer like a bloody burglar, terrified of discovery. No frantically stifling his cries in the pillow for fear someone in the corridor outside would hear him. And as gratifying as it undoubtedly was to hear that his efforts were making Hoshi want to caterwaul like an alley cat, the unromantic urge to put his hand over her mouth to muffle the noise really took the shine off his achievements sometimes.

He was perfectly confident that he could earn that dinner. If he wanted to. And how appealing it was, the idea of actually being able to be upfront about it. In the bitterest of ironies, the days had been when he'd have positively relished the necessity for subterfuge, the ceaseless game of carrying out an illicit affair under the unsuspecting nose of authority. Now, however, all that seemed like something he'd grown out of. He hated the dishonesty of it: the secrecy, the lies. He and Hoshi were grown adults, forced to act like guilty teenagers because of some stupid regulations that had never been written with five-year stints in mind.

He hadn't said 'yes'. On the other hand he hadn't actually said 'no' either. He was disgusted with himself for having been so tempted. He should have been honest, or if he couldn't manage honesty he should at least have made some graceful excuse that would have allowed them both to slide out of the situation with honour intact. Now he was left to wonder how he was going to get out of the trap that he'd neatly shut himself in. His moral side was lecturing him sternly that two-timing the woman of his dreams would be inexcusable; that the shades of his ancestors would be spinning in their graves at the very idea of such ungentlemanly behaviour. However tempted he might be – and, being human, he still was – he knew that he couldn't betray Hoshi, no matter how appealing the idea might be to his lower nature.

_Bloody hell. This is a new one for a tactical officer: think of some way to get out of shagging a beautiful woman without causing an inter-species incident. _

He needed advice. Ideally, from someone who wouldn't a) reproach him for forgetting about regulations and invite him to watch a game of water-polo to take his mind off things, b) tell him he'd been illogical to get himself into this dilemma in the first place, or c) laugh their heads off at his plight. There was always option d) if he was _really, utterly_ desperate, but telling Travis anything he wanted kept confidential was pretty well the same as e) putting out a ship-wide announcement. Both options d) and e) were almost certain to lead to the one outcome he was particularly anxious to avoid: Hoshi kicking him in the balls, calling him names and refusing to sleep with him again.

He was just ruminating over which of these equally unappealing alternatives might be the best to take when the door chime sounded. His startled jerk upright was an eloquent indicator of his growing sense of being hunted, and it was with some trepidation that he gave permission for whoever it was to enter. If it was Veylo he'd just have to take the bull by the horns and explain his situation. If that involved him ending up looking like a total prat, he didn't deserve any better. At least he'd be a faithful prat.

The door hissed open. Trip stood there, and as soon as he saw his commander's face Malcolm knew that as far as needing help went, the boot was on the other foot. Trip's face was a faithful mirror for his every mood, and right now it was angry and desperate, even almost wild. Until they got this sorted out – whatever crisis this new arrival betokened – then his own concerns would just have to take a back step. Maybe Fate had intervened to save him, but the shudder of certainty went through him that it would be a rescue more costly than he'd have wanted at any price.

This was trouble_._

_Big trouble._

* * *

"Gosh, I'd never have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself!" said Emma, laughing.

"I know! He's the last man on board I'd have..." Miriam buried her face in her coffee cup, snorting. "Right out in front of everyone!"

"So what's with the latest?" Hoshi dropped into the empty chair at the crowded table in the Mess Hall, her face alight with interest. To judge by the faces of the women gathered there, something remarkable had happened; and she was always keen to keep up with the latest scuttlebutt.

She noticed, a moment too late, that one face was not grinning. Her best friend, Liz, was looking stricken. And that expression was directed at her.

"Uh, it's ... it's nothing," stammered Liz. "Nothing at all. Really."

"_Nothing?_" Eloise stared at her. "It's the most exciting piece of 'nothing' to happen on this ship for months!"

A cold feeling started to congeal in the pit of Hoshi's stomach. To try to assuage it she took a swallow of her green tea. Even though it was still hot enough to make her mouth smart, however, the cold feeling still remained.

Emma leaned forward. "You should've been here at lunchtime! I swear, everyone in the place was watching the two of them!"

"Watching who do what?" Her voice emerged thinly; or at least it sounded so to her ears.

"The Vissian Tactical Officer and _Lieutenant Reed!"_ Eloise almost squealed with excitement. "They were _flirting_ with each other! Right over there!"

"It was nothing like that. You're just making mountains out of molehills." Desperation was too plain in Liz's voice. "Of course they'd sit together and talk. They must have a lot of shared interests. That's all it was."

"Oh, sure. You could tell what _one_ of their shared interests was!" A laugh ran around the table. "Feeding him lumps of cheese, like the Captain giving Porthos treats! And man, if his eyes had been hooks –!"

Hoshi took refuge in her mug of tea again, her thoughts spinning. She hardly heard Liz continue trying to argue a case she clearly didn't believe in herself. From all accounts, the evidence was pretty damning, and it would need more than the efforts of a loyal friend to clear him of the indictment.

To be sure, nothing had been said of commitment or exclusivity, let alone love. Their relationship was far too new for that kind of question. She felt that she mattered to him; she knew unquestioningly that he'd wanted her and still did, and she wanted him just as badly. The physical side of their relationship was a drug to which she'd become addicted at the first hit.

In cold hard reality, she had no idea how he regarded her. Although she'd shared his bunk on quite a few occasions now, she'd known better than to attempt to pry beyond what he chose to reveal of his inner thoughts. He remained, in many respects, a closed book to her.

The most basic common sense told her that she could hardly complain that he'd never sat in the Mess flirting with _her._ They'd both known from the start that their liaison would have to be kept a close secret; it might not directly contravene regulations, as he was not in her chain of command, but it was sailing pretty damned close to it. Every word, every look, had to be guarded. Even Liz had been excluded, though the odd hint she'd dropped of late suggested she'd guessed something was going on. Her obvious dismay now confirmed that beyond all doubt.

"We were kind of hoping for a repeat performance tonight," snickered Anna. "But neither of them have shown up. Maybe they're having something a little more intimate ... in his quarters."

A delighted gasp ran around the table at this scandalous suggestion.

"Maybe she's getting a personal demonstration of his weapons capability," chortled Hannah. "She sure got a personally conducted tour of the Armory this afternoon. Never saw him so charming. I hardly recognized him!"

There was a very slight stir of discomfort at this. Hannah was a member of Malcolm's department; she owed him loyalty. Dropping him deeper into the mire by revealing his behaviour in the confines of his own domain was not, as the Brit would probably have expressed it, 'cricket.' That said, it was an open secret that she thought she should have made Ensign long ago. Her commanding officer doubtless had his own reasons why she hadn't.

"Pity I missed them at lunch, then," said Hoshi mechanically. She'd been working on a particularly complex translation and had taken it back to her room to finish in peace and quiet; consequently she'd turned up late for lunch and, obviously, missed all the fun. It was clear that Malcolm had noticed her absence and acted accordingly. Maybe he'd have acted the same way even if she'd been there. After all, he'd never uttered the word 'love.'

She looked down at her risotto. It was rapidly going cold, and she no longer wanted it anyway.

* * *

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	48. Regeneration

"I appreciate that you owe Phlox. We all do. But right now, Sickbay's not safe."

Malcolm stared in puzzled anxiety into Hoshi's face. For some reason she wasn't meeting his eyes, and she hadn't responded to any of his subtle or even not-so-subtle hints ever since that meeting with the Vissians.

At first he'd put it down to the fact that she was affected by Trip's obvious grief over the Cogenitor's suicide. For that matter, he himself had been. In his own inexpert way he'd done his best to help begin healing the damage, devoting a lot of his spare time to keeping his friend company, and silently damning the Vissian culture, the Cogenitor for committing suicide and even the captain for castigating a man who was supposed to be his best friend for a mistake born out of his own impulsive kindness. Trip had certainly been at fault, but he hadn't been the only one; and he'd blamed himself enough without being flayed by a man against whose condemnation he had virtually no defences. Not that he'd revealed much about what Archer had actually said. But from words dropped here and there – mostly when the bourbon hit him hardest, in the dark hours of the night – it was easy enough to fit the pieces together. They didn't make a pretty picture.

Trip and Hoshi had been friends almost from the word 'go', and the engineer's guilt-filled despair must have affected her deeply as well. It was at least as much for some mutual support in their sorrow over his state that Malcolm had been trying to arrange some private time with her. If she didn't feel that sex was appropriate in the circumstances, he could understand that, even agree with it, and he'd circumspectly tried to convey as much when she first rebuffed his suggestion that they meet up. It had made no difference. He had made three or four attempts since then, all of which had been given the cold shoulder, to his increasing bewilderment and annoyance. It wasn't as though he thought he had _rights _or anything, but this sudden total change in her attitude towards him would have hurt even if he'd understood what he'd done to deserve it. Which he didn't.

Her expression now wouldn't have been out of place in a waxworks. He'd explained how Phlox had been infected by the nanoprobes, and that it would be unsafe for her to linger in his vicinity. The captain had asked her to deliver some food for his slugs that the doctor was now naturally unable to fetch for himself, but it would hardly be appropriate for her to linger in such a potentially dangerous environment. Malcolm had snatched a moment to catch up with her to underline the danger, to ask her to take extra care and – with luck – to steal a brief kiss, mostly to reassure himself that there wasn't anything seriously wrong between them.

It was rapidly being borne in upon him not only that his strictures were falling on deaf ears, but that he was more likely to get a snog with T'Pol than he was with Hoshi Sato at this present moment.

"The captain explained that to me, sir," said Hoshi coolly. "You have one of your guards there. I'm perfectly able to take care of myself, thank you."

It was her use of 'sir' when they were alone in the corridor that alerted him to the fact that something was _very_ seriously wrong.

Unfortunately, he had very, very limited time right now to find out what it was. Nor was he in the mood to play guessing games, given the fact that he'd just witnessed two Tarkaleans being shot into space because he hadn't been able to stop them by conventional means from carrying out some form of modification to the warp plasma regulators.

He cared a great deal about the fact that she was obviously upset with him about something, though he hadn't a clue what it might be. But he couldn't let himself be diverted by his own personal concerns – he should already be with Trip, trying to find out what those modifications might consist of and what kind of threat they might present to the ship. So that meant one thing: he was about to make himself even less popular with her than he already was.

He'd made a quick detour to the Armoury to pick up an additional phase pistol. He now handed this to her. "I want you to wear this when you go to Sickbay."

"_Pardon?"_ She gazed at it in stupefaction.

"That's an order, Ensign." Two could play silly buggers, if that was the game. He made his voice cold, authoritative. "Wear it for your own protection. And if you need to use it, just aim and shoot like you're doing target practice, don't even think about anything else. It's set on stun, so you don't have to worry about that."

"You want me to shoot _Phlox_ with it?"

"I want you to shoot anybody who you even suspect poses a threat to you or any member of the crew. Without hesitation. Me included, if it comes to that."

He caught a momentary glint of eyes at that. It suggested that she was minded to perceive him as a threat already and more than inclined to blast his arse with it. And he _still_ had no idea what he'd done.

"Are there any other orders, _sir?"_ Now the honorific had icicles dripping off it.

He looked at her longingly, wishing for the days back when he could have whispered something in her ear that would make her giggle. But those were history, it seemed, and Trip would be waiting. The helpless feeling that he'd somehow wrecked yet another relationship congealed in his stomach like ice, sickening him with its familiarity. And this time he didn't even know how.

"Just that you take care of yourself, Hoshi," he said sadly.

Then he turned around and walked quickly up the corridor.

He didn't look back.

He couldn't.

* * *

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	49. First Flight

"Don't forget you're scheduled for phase pistol practice in ten minutes, Ensign."

The chilly reminder from a couple of meters away brought Hoshi's head up with some reluctance from the translation matrix she'd been working on all morning.

Malcolm had been on the bridge as usual, and she'd gotten pretty good at avoiding his gaze. Come to think of it, just lately she'd been less aware of his eyes on her, as though he'd stopped looking at her so much. He spoke to her when he had to, with perfect civility; he sat alone in the Mess, with his PADD for company, and politely refused Trip's or Travis's invitations to join them, pleading the pressures of work. As soon as he'd eaten he got up and left. He had reverted to the iceberg who'd first come on board. A perfect professional.

"I won't, sir." Her reply was addressed to his back, since he hadn't waited for her to glance up. He was on the way to the turbo-lift, and acknowledged her response with only a curt nod.

All senior staff were expected to reach a certain level of competence with weapons. She still wasn't brilliant, but lately, under his patient tutelage, she'd been getting a lot better. Her improvement had been a source of intense pleasure to both of them.

That wasn't the only thing that had come under that heading, but the other looked like it had come to an inglorious end now. An object lesson on why emotional involvements were frowned upon on board ship. Still, she could handle it. It was the risk she'd taken, and it hadn't paid off. She'd just have to put up with the sense of vacuum in her life and her bed, and someday it would cease to hurt. If she wanted an object lesson in how to cope, she just had to look across the Bridge. It sure didn't seem like it was bothering _him_ anymore.

She looked down again at the matrix. For some reason it now appeared considerably less intriguing than it had done a couple of seconds ago. Still, she had Lieutenant Ultra Professional Reed as her mentor. He evidently wasn't going to let his feelings (if he had any) prevent him from carrying out_ his_ duties, however tedious or even unpleasant they might be.

Resolutely she stifled the inner voice that said she was being both childish and unfair. It wasn't she who'd chosen to cheat.

T'Pol and the captain were away from the ship right now, exploring a nebula that might (in theory) be composed of the legendary 'dark matter.' Perhaps in an attempt to make some move towards mending the rupture in their relationship over the episode with the Cogenitor, Captain Archer had recruited Trip's expertise to rig spatial charges to deliver metrion particles into the nebula in the attempt to excite it sufficiently to register on sensors. This had never been achieved before, and the captain had been as excited as a boy himself by the prospect; his enthusiasm had been enough to light up a whole nebula by itself.

The Vulcan had been rather less excited by the experiment, but then her people weren't big on getting excited about things. Her lack of animation had been more than compensated for by Trip's; he'd been buoyed up by the challenge, and it wasn't hard to guess that the engineer would have loved to go along and take part in the fun himself. Plainly he'd seized on the gesture of forgiveness from the commanding officer whose trust he'd felt he'd betrayed, and his relief was palpable. Once again she had to exercise some determination not to let her mind dwell on the probable feelings of the man who'd been brought along on the voyage for his expertise with explosives among other things, and who had not been invited to contribute. Still, if his exclusion brought Trip some much-needed comfort instead, she had no doubt that Malcolm wouldn't grudge his own loss.

In the absence of his two senior officers, Trip was now in command of the ship. He was therefore on the Bridge and occupying the captain's chair, though the odds were that he wouldn't remain there for too long. He had far too much irrepressible energy to sit still and do nothing while others were participating in an experiment that could, if it succeeded, send ripples across the whole scientific community.

Right now, however, he wasn't looking at the viewscreen. He was looking at her. She'd had occasion before to notice how very perceptive those very blue eyes were, and now they were wondering why she was dawdling at her station instead of making her way down to the Armory where Malcolm Reed was waiting for her.

Yeah. Like she couldn't wait for _that_ particular pleasure. Having the hands correct her stance and her grip on the pistol with icy correct professionalism, and the dry cool English voice comment on her hit-to-miss ratio like he was reading out the performance statistics on different plasma intermixes. When the memory was still all too fresh in her mind of what those skilled hands could do when they were being anything _but_ icy and correct, and how low and smoky and seductive that English voice had been in her ear...

At least five minutes must have passed while she'd sat here glumly contemplating her doom. If she weren't to give him the pleasure of being able to reprimand her for lateness, she'd better get a move on.

"Permission to leave my station, sir." She stood up.

"Granted, Ensign." Trip nodded Ensign Moran up to cover the comm. "I'll see you after lunch."

Feeling as though she were walking to the guillotine, Hoshi crossed the couple of meters that separated her from the turbo-lift. She could feel Trip's eyes following her.

Her vague hopes that the lift might break down and come to a terminal stop somewhere between A and F Deck went unfulfilled. With its usual exasperating efficiency it disgorged her at F Deck, where the Armory was situated. With a pang she remembered that they'd even got a laugh out of that, once; it had seemed such an appropriate letter for his other area of expertise. _I'll be able to remember what deck the Bridge is on now,_ he'd said, kissing her. _It's where I get to look at yours whenever you stand up. Discreetly, of course. _The reference had puzzled her until she'd realized that in the vulgar British idiom he sometimes affected, 'butt' was usually rendered as 'arse.'

All too soon the Armory doors were in front of her. She drew a deep breath and pressed the door control. Half-an-hour, that was all. Half-an-hour wasn't so long to endure.

He was alone. The target projector was set up in the usual place. He was standing between the torpedo launching platforms, facing away from her. His head was bowed, his hands joined in front of him as though he was holding a pistol and waiting tensely for some test to start.

She said nothing, but stopped and waited just inside the door. He'd have heard her come in. Whatever he was doing, he wouldn't need her interrupting it just to announce her arrival unnecessarily.

After a moment he turned around. He was indeed holding a pistol, gripping it two-handed. As a good professional should, he kept it pointing safely at the floor, even though the power cell was lying on one of the platforms beside him.

"I'm giving you the option today, Ensign." His voice, when he finally spoke, was perfectly level. "I'd appreciate it if you could find it in you to explain exactly what I did to offend you so much. But if you can't, we'll proceed with the lesson. And I'll never mention what happened between us again. Ever."

That he employed that 'ever' with absolute precision, she did not doubt for a moment. That he could deal with the subject so coolly, even pretending that he had no idea what he'd done, was rather harder for to her accept. Half the ship had witnessed him with the Vissian tactical officer – eating cheese she'd fed him, as though he were her pet damned dog! And that evening he'd been conspicuous by his absence. Doubtless he'd had other and more interesting things on his mind than showing up for dinner in the Mess Hall.

She crossed her arms and gave him back stare for stare. Okay, if that was the way he wanted to play it.

"Permission to speak freely – _sir?_"

"Permission granted," he said neutrally. He placed the pistol carefully and soundlessly on the launch platform alongside the power cell, crossed his arms too, and waited.

"Well." A pause, to give her time to marshal her thoughts; though she'd gone over all this so often in her mind that she had it pretty well word-perfect already, so it was only a brief one. "Do you remember that Vissian you gave the tour of the ship to?"

"Lieutenant Veylo. Yes." Guarded agreement, but no comprehension yet. Though she already knew he was a past master at showing nothing more than he chose to. He was hardly going to let himself look guilty.

"You had lunch with her."

"Yes." The angle of his head changed slightly. The slightest suggestion of a smile showed on his mouth. "Ah."

"Yes. _Ah_," she said viciously. "And that was just the hors d'oeuvres, I suppose."

He sighed. "So this is all over a couple of pieces of cheese."

"Cheese and everything else. She didn't exactly keep it a secret that she was after your butt." Despite her best efforts, the pain spilled into her voice. "And when you didn't show up for dinner that evening, well ... it was pretty obvious. I know!" She lifted a hand, forestalling him. "We were ... it's not like it was official or anything. I must just have read too much into it. I'm sorry, right? I thought ... well, it doesn't matter now what I thought."

"Hoshi." God, why did he have to be able to put so much exasperated tenderness into one word? "Hoshi, you daft haddock. You know what I was _really _doing all that night? Listening to Trip Tucker putting the entire Vissian culture to rights. Trying to convince him that the Cogenitor would be all right, God help me. He came to my cabin because he had to spill his guts to somebody and for some reason he picked me. You can ask him if you want; he won't lie to save my arse, not to you. I didn't even see Veylo again till the next day, and then we just said goodbye, see you again someday perhaps. That was all."

"You were with _Trip?_" she whispered. All this time she'd been picturing him and the Vissian woman, and cursing him for his easy infidelity.

"All night. Scout's honour. And just in case you get any ideas about _him_, I was on my best behaviour. I swear to God, I didn't even think about kissing him." He grinned, and then sobered. "The thing in the Mess, well, yes. Guilty on that charge. You think I enjoy everyone on the ship thinking I'm some kind of neuter? I saw the chance, I took it, and if you want the honest truth I enjoyed it. And while we're being totally honest, yes, she did make a pass at me, and yes, I was a little bit tempted. I'm not perfect, Hoshi. But I knew that even the chance of losing what I had with you wasn't worth whatever she had to offer. And even before Trip showed up, the only thing that was on my mind was how to let her down gently."

"Oh, Malcolm." Her voice had gone snuffly, probably because tears were leaking down her face by this time. "Why didn't you _say?_"

He'd closed the distance between them by this time, though she hadn't noticed him doing it. It was probably some sneaky, secret Royal Navy maneuver.

"It would have helped if I'd known what was wrong, sweetheart. I thought it was me who had the trust issues, not you." He tilted her face up gently. He obviously wasn't fazed by the fact that her nose had gone red and she looked really, really awful when she was crying, because he kissed her softly. "You forgive me for the cheese?"

"As long as you promise to let me feed you some too. In your cabin. Tonight."

"Willingly. As long as you promise me that between us it'll only be a starter." Another sneaky, secret Royal Navy maneuver had got his arms around her and another kiss followed it. Things could have escalated but for the fact that they were both still on duty, not to mention in the Armory, and pretty well anyone could walk in.

He released her with obvious reluctance that was possibly only exceeded by her reluctance to allow him to do so. Glancing at her face, he opened one of his utility pockets and found a handkerchief. Of course it was immaculately clean and of course it was folded and ironed. He waited till she'd scrubbed her face with it and blown her nose, though he responded with a raised eyebrow when she playfully offered it back to him. Grinning, she stuffed it in one of her own pockets. "Now, Ensign, about that weapons practice…"

_Sweetheart. _He'd never called her that before, even in their most intimate moments. She picked up the phase pistol and fitted the power cell into it almost jubilantly. She was going to get the best score ever this time.

Well.

At least until tonight.

* * *

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	50. Bounty

_Bloody hell, what a day._

Lieutenant Reed pulled off his EV suit helmet and ran a hand a little shakily through his hair.

Time was when it would have been the answer to his prayers to have been violently propositioned by a half-naked T'Pol, demanding to know when he'd last mated and evidently anxious to remedy any shortfall immediately. But times had changed, he'd changed with them, and now it was just plain embarrassing. He might still have rather enjoyed the view, as any red-blooded male would, but he knew that this was utterly abnormal behaviour for the usually dignified and composed First Officer, and that she would be the Vulcan equivalent of 'mortified' when she recovered. Assuming, of course, that Vulcans _had _any equivalent to it; perhaps it was a bit too extreme and illogical an emotion to come within their purview. Still, whatever she felt, she certainly wouldn't be happy. That knowledge more than took the shine off any pleasure he'd felt.

He wished they hadn't had to resort to stunning her though. Still, having been on the receiving end of a flare of Vulcan temper that had slammed him into the bulkhead so hard all the breath had been driven out of his lungs, dropping him to the floor, he'd rather run out of options. They couldn't let her run wild around the ship, spreading the microbes Phlox had mentioned.

He breathed a silent prayer to whichever saint was the patron of beleaguered Armoury officers that Hoshi hadn't been monitoring the helmet comms. Given the rocky patch their relationship had just gone through, she wouldn't have been overjoyed to hear T'Pol say, 'I've seen the way you look at me on the Bridge'. At the start of the voyage there might have been some truth in this accusation, but it had been months now since he'd seen the Vulcan as anything other than an officer worthy of his respect. Besides which, he suspected that Trip's feelings for T'Pol were becoming increasingly complex; the almost daily bickering between the two of them sometimes took on a quality all its own. It was noticeable, too, that the teasing references to 'romance' that had previously peppered the engineer's conversation had mysteriously ceased of late. The most likely explanation for this was that Trip had come to the belated conclusion that engineers in glass shuttlepods shouldn't throw hypospanners, and, realising this, Malcolm permitted himself a small, feral smile.

_What goes around, comes around, Commandah Tuckah._

In the meantime, however, he'd better get around to some strategy and tactics. Which he'd need to use, if by any horrible chance Hoshi _had _overheard that accusation.

The staff in Hydroponics were known to be open to persuasion when it came to the odd rose or two being required in emergency situations. Or would that look like a guilty conscience?

A rose or no rose. Decisions, decisions. But whichever he chose, he'd better hit the ground running, ready to use the most persuasive weapon in his own personal armoury.

His tongue.

* * *

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	51. The Expanse

This was where it had all started for them. And perhaps, this was where it was all going to end.

After a long, exhausting day working on the upgrades to the weapons system, Malcolm had dragged himself to the observation lounge. He was too tired even to go to his cabin and shower. Every bone in his body ached, and the job wasn't finished yet by a long shot.

He leaned against the window, staring down in silence at the poor, scarred planet underneath them. If the captain could persuade Starfleet to let them go in search of the weapon-builders, _Enterprise_ was probably the best hope Earth had of escaping a second and fatal strike. But a significant body of opinion held that she would be of more benefit remaining close at hand, part of a protective force held ready for that second strike the captain had been told would come, whenever and from wherever it should materialize. It would take all of Captain Archer's powers of eloquence to bring them around to releasing the ship for what could well be a fruitless search and would certainly be a desperately dangerous one.

A sound behind him told him someone had arrived, and even though whoever it was didn't speak, he knew it was Hoshi. He didn't look around. A deadness of soul had settled on him, and he realised that the price of seeing her safe – as far as anyone remaining back on Earth could be considered safe, until this business was done with – would be costly. Nevertheless the alternative was worse. She'd signed up for a voyage of exploration, not a tour on board a warship. The imminent arrival of a team of MACOs was testament to what _Enterprise_'s new designation was. It wasn't something Hoshi should be part of. He wanted her kept far from the danger.

All of the senior staff had been briefed on the dangers inherent in entering the mysterious 'Delphic Expanse'. They all knew that there was a very real risk that if they reached it at all they might never return. His own death was a thing he'd faced before, and although he had no wish to die he was not afraid to do so if that was the price demanded for Earth's survival. Hoshi's was another matter. She was a civilian. She had no part in this. Her parents would want her home with them.

He held out an arm, unspeaking, and she came to him and nestled close with an easy grace that was already part of what he had begun to describe to himself as _us._ An entity in whose existence he had only recently begun to believe, and that was being torn away from him by an event so unimaginable that even when he was looking down at the direct and irrefutable evidence he could hardly believe even now that it had happened.

"When does the shuttle leave?" At least his voice was reasonably steady. He congratulated himself on that much.

"Twenty-one hundred hours. I've got everything packed."

Some of the martial arts disciplines he'd learned placed enormous emphasis on physical self-awareness. He concentrated with all his might on experiencing what _us_ felt like: her arm around his waist, his arm around her shoulders, her head resting against his breast. He could smell her perfume and the clean scent of her body. Her hair was silken against his chin. He wanted to remember it all, for comfort and torment in the long, lonely months ahead.

There was so much he wanted to say. He wasn't sure whether to, or whether it would be kindest for both of them not to say anything at all.

Finally, "I'll miss you, Hoshi," he said softly.

He didn't look down. Fiercely and uselessly he wished they were in bed together, not for sex – that had largely become a casualty of the shock and rage and grief that had enveloped the ship when the news broke over it – but for the simple comfort of physical closeness to ward off a world that they no longer recognised. And yet that would be worse, because he'd have to feel her nakedness and her beauty slip away from him for the last time. At least he'd be spared that.

Her head moved sharply. She was looking up at him.

Her next words came as a shock. "Malcolm Reed," she said, "you don't think I'm leaving for _good?"_

He took his arm from around her quickly. They'd had so little time together since the ship came back into spacedock, and the journey home had been accomplished in a state where it seemed almost obscene to try to derive comfort from each other when so many of the rest of the crew had been in varying states of emotional collapse. Trip, in particular, had fallen from being the brightest star on the ship to a black hole of fury and grief over his sister's death. Malcolm sometimes suspected that he somehow resented him for the fact that England had been lucky enough not to be the target for the weapon's malice, and that therefore his sorrow and rage (however heartfelt) couldn't fully replicate his own.

And then Hoshi had mentioned she was catching the shuttle that was taking so many members of the crew home. Some had volunteered to stay with the ship while others, naturally, had chosen to leave. The changed nature of their task had meant that nobody was to be pressurised to remain on board. He'd both feared and hoped all along that Hoshi would follow the logical path, leaving with most of the other non-combatants, the scientists and the like, whose expertise was unlikely to have anything to contribute to the hunt to come. Her mention of the shuttle had come like a death blow, but he'd absorbed it quietly, taking it for granted that she'd referred to it so lightly because after all their relationship wasn't that much of a big deal in her eyes.

"Well, yes, I did," he replied uncertainly. "You didn't sign on to serve aboard a warship, after all."

"I've already had this from the captain. I didn't think I'd have it from you!" she said fiercely. "I've changed. I've grown up. I'm part of the team now. You know that! And yet you think I'm going to go running scared off the ship and leave you to face this without me?"

"I don't doubt your courage, Hoshi. You've proved it to me a dozen times over. But this is different."

"How, different?" she flashed.

He sighed, and lifted a hand to run his fingers lightly over her cheek. "Sweetheart, you saw the vid-recording the Vulcans gave the captain. Who can say that won't happen to us? I can't bear the thought of you..." He swallowed painfully. "Becoming like that. _Dying _like that, when you could stay at home and be safe. Nobody will think any the less of you, Hoshi."

"_I_ would think the less of me." Her voice had dropped an octave and become hard. "I'm one of this ship's crew. I belong here. I can make a difference, and you're not leaving me behind." She threw her right arm around him and with her left dragged his head down for a bruising kiss. "And what the hell would I be doing, while I was down there on Earth and you'd flown off without me?" she hissed against his mouth when they paused for much-needed air. "Missing you like hell, Malcolm Reed. Worrying my head off every minute of every hour of every day that I'd never hear from you again, never see you again, never even know what had happened to you! Well, I don't want that. I'm catching that shuttle to go buy a few changes of clothes and some new books and a few other things, and after that I'm catching the next one back. And I'm coming with you to find that weapon!"

_Oh, God. _'_Us_' still existed in his universe after all. He filled his arms with it.

_Now he could face anything.  
_

* * *

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	52. The Xindi

"Malcolm, when you're through here I'd like a word with you in my Ready Room."

Archer watched his subordinate carefully as he issued that order.

Nothing but mild, polite surprise, followed by a nod. "Two minutes, Captain." Obviously he'd need to get a deputy up to cover the station in his absence.

Under cover of turning away from Tactical, the captain slid a glance at Hoshi. She'd looked up from her work, and she was far less schooled at keeping her expression neutral than Malcolm was. That was a damned guilty look if ever he'd seen one.

He walked into the Ready Room and sat down to wait.

_Could_ the scuttlebutt he'd overheard be true?

He'd only heard it by accident, a couple of days ago. The crewmen discussing it had been approaching the junction in the corridor at the same time he'd been approaching it from the one at right angles to them. They hadn't seen him till he was practically on top of them.

From what he'd heard, they didn't believe it either. He was aware that being cooped up together in a ship for months on end would inevitably lead to gossip; it was human nature, and mostly he believed in ignoring things he wasn't meant to hear as long as it didn't involve anything serious. This, however, could be more than serious. In the present situation, nothing could be allowed to interfere with the mission. If it _was_ true, he needed to know about it. And to know how it was going to affect two of the officers on whom he most needed to depend.

Time had been when he'd have asked Trip to watch a game of water-polo and broached the matter in strict confidence over a couple of beers, but the incident with the Cogenitor and then Lizzie's death had put an end to their once easy camaraderie. If Trip heard scuttlebutt these days, he kept what he heard to himself. He'd stopped caring about anything except revenge.

He'd considered talking the matter over with T'Pol, but that course was fraught with difficulties. Having no experience of human frailties, she was likely to take a hard line over the issue, and he wanted to keep his options open as far as possible.

So that left only one avenue – the direct one.

He'd originally contemplated tackling them both, but after reflection he'd decided to try Malcolm first. Hoshi was the softer target of the two of them by a country mile, but if this was just unfounded rumor she would be justifiably hurt and offended that he'd found it credible. It all depended on how Malcolm reacted. The tactical officer was sometimes about as transparent as a sheet of duranium, but he'd never given any indication that he wasn't truthful – quite the opposite. If he denied it, the captain was inclined to view the matter as closed. That look from Hoshi could easily have been no more than a coincidence.

The chime sounded.

"Come."

Reed entered, and took up station in front of the desk in the appropriate parade rest position. "You wanted to see me, sir."

"Yes." It was surprisingly difficult to know where to start, especially given the Englishman's extreme reticence in personal matters, but Archer plunged into the heart of the matter. "Malcolm, I overheard something yesterday that I think we need to get cleared up."

The gray eyes blinked and widened fractionally, that was all. "Sir?"

"I don't normally take any notice of most of the stupid things I overhear, but this was something I couldn't just ignore." He took a deep breath. "There's apparently some talk that you and Hoshi are … involved in a relationship."

He waited for the indignant denial.

It didn't come.

It was difficult for Reed to stand any straighter, but somehow he managed it. His gaze snapped briefly to his favorite bulkhead on these occasions, then returned unwaveringly to the captain.

"Yes, sir," he said quietly. "It's true."

Archer leaned forward over the desk. He knew his face had stretched in incredulity, but he couldn't do much about it. He was too stunned, both by the development and by his officer's calm admission of guilt.

"Did you say it's _true?_" he demanded.

"Yes, sir. And as the senior officer, I accept total responsibility."

"You're damned right you do, mister!" Anger flared. "How long has_ this_ been going on?"

"For some time. It was my fault entirely, sir. I pursued Ensign Sato with my unwanted attentions."

Emotions swung too giddily, making the captain dizzy. The visions this conjured up made him want to fold up with laughter. Malcolm Reed, sexual predator, pressing his uncontrollable lusts on an unwilling Hoshi Sato, his cowering victim. Not in this world or the next. No, sir.

"Malcolm. I know you and I know Hoshi. And you should know better than to try and feed me that crap. So let's get down to the real stuff."

He sat back in his chair and gave himself time to get his head back in order.

"So I take it this is pretty serious," he said at last. It hardly needed asking, given who was involved, but he had to get the facts right, now this was out in the open.

"It is for me, sir," the lieutenant answered in a low voice. "I don't know how she feels about it. It's … never been something I've felt able to ask."

That figured. Archer studied him for a while longer. Now that he looked carefully, the signs were there: that faint air of isolation had gone, but there was surprisingly little evidence of the guilt he'd have expected. The lieutenant wore the look of a man ready to quietly accept whatever punishment was due for a sin he'd committed with both eyes wide open to the consequences. Whatever had happened hadn't weakened Malcolm, the captain found himself thinking unexpectedly; it had strengthened him immeasurably.

"Answer me one question, Malcolm," he said at last. "Truthfully."

The chin went up slightly, as though the Englishman was insulted by the suggestion that he might lie, but he only nodded.

"If our mission was endangered by Hoshi's survival – _what would you do?"_

The pause told him the reply wouldn't be a facile one.

"I would do my duty, sir."

"Your duty to me, or to Hoshi?" Archer demanded harshly.

The gray eyes were steady. "I'm a serving Starfleet officer, sir. The safety of the ship and the success of the mission are my primary responsibility before anything else, and Hoshi understands that. My loyalty was given to you before it was to her, and I won't betray any oath I've taken. Whatever it costs."

The captain blinked. He wasn't aware that any oath-taking had ever been involved in Malcolm's recruitment to the ship, but on reflection it seemed rather a characteristic step for him to take. The English were keen on that sort of old-fashioned behavior, and the lieutenant had often shown himself to be a traditionalist. It wasn't beyond the realms of belief that he'd have done something crazy like staying up all night in a church before coming on board to take up his post.

"And you think Hoshi could say the same?" he asked at last.

"I hope so, sir. For what it's worth, she's been a credit to the ship. I don't believe she'd be weak enough to consider endangering our mission just for my sake." There wasn't any fake self-denigration in the quiet statement; Reed was simply telling it the way he saw it. Whether Hoshi would see it from exactly the same angle was, of course, quite another matter.

Archer ruminated a little longer.

If this 'affair' had been going on for a while – and he saw no reason to doubt that – then to have kept it hidden as successfully as they had, they must have been extremely discreet. It definitely hadn't become common knowledge or T'Pol would almost certainly have picked up on it; and if she had, she would have considered it a grave enough matter to have brought it to his attention. Few people appreciated just how keen the Vulcan's hearing was and how much she inadvertently overheard.

Trip, of course, was a different matter. He might well know, but then he was close to both of the guilty parties and certainly wouldn't have divulged his knowledge. Doing that would not have been the conduct of a 'Southern gentleman,' though in fairness that would only extend insofar as keeping the secret didn't endanger the proper running of the ship. If the matter became a problem, and one beyond his power to cure, he'd have spilled the beans fast enough. And besides, ever since the attack on Earth, he'd have brought the full power of his authority down like a hammer to end the relationship if he'd thought for a moment it was a hindrance to the mission. If it was still going, with Trip's knowledge, he must believe it presented no possible threat.

Meeting Reed's steady, resigned stare, Archer was conscious of a pang of envy. God knew when he'd see Erika again, and even that didn't fall under the heading of a 'serious' relationship; both of them had put their careers first, and at best what they had could be described as a friendship with benefits. Considering that for the foreseeable future they were, in the truest sense of the term, aboard 'ships that pass in the night,' he could hardly expect any different. Even if _Enterprise_ somehow pulled off the mission and returned to Earth intact, nothing would have changed. But Malcolm and Hoshi, of all unlikely people, had their own little source of hope out here in the Expanse, in the middle of what was rapidly becoming to their captain little more than an abyss of despair. They'd been out here for six weeks, and so far all they had was a suggestion of someone who 'might have been' a Xindi, who'd been transported to a mining facility a couple of years ago. This being the only trail they'd found, they were currently following it up; with any luck, the ship would arrive there at any time.

In the meantime, however, he wanted to smooth out any possible wrinkles in the fabric of the ship's smooth operation. And this particular wrinkle definitely needed attention. If it hadn't been for the reliance he placed on the professionalism of the two people involved, he'd have quashed it out of hand.

Officially speaking, this wasn't something he could sanction, although the fact that the two officers involved weren't in the same chain of command offered him a little leeway. But exactly how much was 'a little'?

Not enough, he decided. At least, not enough for the relationship to receive any official recognition.

"You're aware this is serious, Malcolm," he said gravely.

"Yes, sir. I knew that from the start. It wasn't something I entered into lightly."

Archer lifted a hand, stopping him. "You don't need to tell me that, Lieutenant. But the fact remains that Starfleet regulations forbid fraternization. And although you're not Hoshi's commanding officer, there could be considered room for some conflict."

The gray gaze remained unwavering. It would be absurd and unnecessary to protest that no relationship would impinge on the Reed professionalism when it came to his official duties; if the captain didn't know that by now then there was no earthly point in telling him. But that wasn't the point.

"After consideration, I've decided that the matter is so extremely serious that I propose to know nothing whatsoever about it. As long as you and Ensign Sato continue to keep it discreet, and as long as it presents no threat to the mission, then as far as I'm concerned it's not happening."

"_Sir?"_

God, he loved catching Malcolm out. All that English dignity shattered into outright amazement. For the first time in a long while Archer actually felt like grinning.

"You heard me, Lieutenant. Go on, get out of here. And you owe me one."

"Captain – if ever I can –"

"Just help me find the weapon, Malcolm. After that, we're quits." The words came from the bottom of his guts.

All trace of levity gone, Reed stared back at him.

"With my life, sir." And it didn't need clairvoyance to know that he'd just heard another oath taken.

The tactical officer came to the salute. British Navy style, ramrod-straight.

Archer nodded dismissal. "I'd like you to go down to the Command Center for a while, lieutenant," he added, as Malcolm turned to leave. "I think T'Pol could do with a hand. And be ready when we get to that mining facility, I'll be wanting you with me."

"Certainly, sir." The door hissed shut behind him.

The captain was left to stare darkly at the screen on his desk.

Now, all they had to do was find the Xindi in that facility. And if they did find the guy, he'd better talk. _Fast._ If he knew what was good for him.

* * *

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	53. Anomaly

_'All I'm sayin' is that this mission, whether it succeeds or not, is lookin' more like a one-way ticket all the time.'_

Trip's words hung in Malcolm's ears like a curse as he made his way back towards the Armoury.

He'd been appalled by the ease and efficiency with which _Enterprise _had been boarded and robbed. Weapons, food and fuel: the three things without which their quest was even more hopeless than it had looked to start with. And as if those hadn't been terrible enough losses, on a more personal note they'd also lost one of his department's specialists, Crewman Fuller. He'd recruited Fuller personally, desperately wanting someone with that kind of expertise on his team now that it was imperative their weapons be at their maximum efficiency for when they finally encountered the Xindi. He'd persuaded him and his fellow technician, Rob Darcy, that they'd be of far more use aboard _Enterprise _than in R&D. Both of them were so talented that in ordinary circumstances their department heads would have hung on to them tooth and nail, but the Xindi probe had changed everything; what _Enterprise _asked for, _Enterprise _got. And now Fuller was dead.

He hadn't got around to speaking about it to the other half of what had, to his surprise, turned out to be the Armoury's very own 'comedy duo'. The pair of them combined a deep friendship with an affiliation to two of the teams who were possibly the most virulent rivals in the English Football League. Their flow of abuse of each other's teams had enlivened many a dreary hour, and once he'd discovered that it was actually part of their working relationship and didn't affect their work in the slightest he'd allowed it to continue, on the understanding that it wasn't to irritate or distract anyone else who happened to be in the room with them.

The silence in the Armoury before their advent had used to be comforting. Now, he was going to find it deafening.

At some point or another one of his duties as Fuller's commanding officer would be to supervise the packing away of his effects for return to whoever he would have nominated as next of kin if and when they returned to Earth. At a guess, having been a silent and resigned witness to many an exchange between Crewman Fuller and Crewman Darcy over the respective merits of Southampton and Portsmouth Football Clubs, he could guess there would be a couple of pieces of memorabilia among the dead man's possessions; crew quarters didn't have the space to accommodate much by way of homely touches, but it was a fair bet there would be a match programme or a team photo somewhere. On one of their longer spells of duty together before they launched on the mission (working on the torpedo launchers, of all things, during which his already high opinion of his new junior's skills had risen several more notches), he'd actually allowed himself to be talked into going to see a match at St Mary's Stadium on his next visit to England, which was to convert him instantly into a devoted follower of football.

Well. As unlikely as _that_ was, the new crewman's face had brightened with delight at the prospect. "You won't regret it, sir!" he'd said eagerly. "And we can grab a pie and a pint with the lads in the pub afterwards!"

'A pie and a pint.' Good grief. An instant recipe for chronic dyspepsia if ever he heard one. But a Reed didn't go back on his word.

They hadn't had time to fit in the promised visit to England during the refit, of course; there had been far too many other, vital things to think of and do. 'But we will when we've got those Xindi bastards sorted, won't we, sir?' Fuller's face rose before Malcolm's mind's eye, indefatigably cheerful even after a triple shift fighting to get the upgrades sorted.

_It'll be the first thing on my schedule, Crewman,_ he'd replied solemnly. The rest of the weary team had erupted into laughter; even Darcy had been chuckling too much to vaunt the superior charms of the play to be seen at Fratton Park.

For Crewman Frank Fuller, the mission had already become a one-way ticket. To the last 'away game' of all.

"Lieutenant?"

The voice of one of the few lights left in his world brought him out of his dark reverie. They were on duty. Others were in earshot. Therefore it was 'Lieutenant' and 'Ensign'.

He blinked. He was standing at the guidance system console over which he and the captain had spent the day working. It might hold out during another exchange of fire; it might not. The results of the tests he'd been running were not particularly informative on that score. "Ensign?"

"You forgot your tea. Commander Tucker asked if I'd drop it off if I was passing." Hoshi handed it to him. Under cover of the movement her fingertips caressed the inside of his wrist, mutely offering consolation.

"Thank you." From somewhere he found a tiny, private smile. On ordinary days he'd have finished his shift an hour ago; today, with all the repairs still to carry out, he still had eight hours to do before, under the safety regulations, he had to take a break for sleep. Under those circumstances, caffeine was a lifeline he couldn't do without. Unlike Trip, he had no difficulty sleeping; once off duty, he fell into his bed and slept like a dead dog. Carefully he removed both himself and the tea to a safe distance from anything that could be damaged by accidental spillage, and stood sipping it. As a general rule liquids weren't allowed in here, and Trip would have known that, but for this once he'd make an exception. And drink it at once, to minimise the risk.

She should have walked away, back to the Bridge or wherever she'd been headed when Trip recruited her for the mission of mercy with the tea. But she paused for just a moment longer.

"You looked as though you were miles away." There was a little question in her voice.

He nodded. "I was just ... remembering."

"I heard about it." Her tone was very soft. "If you want a hand with sorting his things..."

"No. Thank you for the offer, but no. I should be the one to do that." He drew a deep breath. "Ensign, do you know anything about football?"

"Soccer, you mean? I've watched a couple of games. I don't say I understand it all. I'd have thought that was more your area of expertise, sir. Being English," she added.

"Oh, I played it at school. I was thinking more along the lines of, well, finding out if there might be something, some piece of music ... associated with Fuller's favourite football team, that he might like played during the service." He met her eyes with a rueful smile. "I'd ask Darcy but, well, it seems a bit ... so I thought it might be a job for the ship's detective."

"Begging your pardon, sir." Another voice broke in. Crewman Darcy had been working on one of the torpedoes in the adjoining storage area, but he'd obviously come in unnoticed to help a couple of the other crewmen crouching behind the further of the two launch platforms, where he'd been out of sight. He was therefore scarcely more than a couple of metres away; he couldn't have helped but overhear. Now he rose, and spoke quietly but resolutely. "I can save Ensign Sato a job, sir. The fans at St Mary's always sing, 'When The Saints Go Marching In'. 'Cause that's what Southampton's nickname is. 'The Saints'." He looked down, seeming to swallow something in his throat. "Never thought I'd see the day when I'd be singing it, sir."

Emotional issues were a minefield to Malcolm. He ventured into them only with extreme caution, knowing too well that he was all too likely to step on something that went 'boom!'. Now, however, some kindly divinity lent him the right words for once. "Thank you for the information, Crewman," he said gravely. "And perhaps after all this is over, you and I can go along next time Portsmouth play Southampton, and we might even grab a pie and a pint afterwards."

"I reckon Frank would like that fine, sir," said Darcy quietly.

Malcolm bent over his work again, and the Armoury staff followed suit in a companionable silence.

But he could still see Hoshi's parting smile.

* * *

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	54. Extinction

Hoshi squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

This was going to be difficult.

Cancel that. It was going to be _impossible._

It was utterly out of character for Malcolm to have absented himself when the ship was in such danger. Even though he'd been the last of them to receive the antidote, she'd seen that it was acting on him just as it had on her and the captain. Normally he'd have come with them to the bridge, wouldn't have rested until he'd seen for himself that the situation was resolved. He certainly wouldn't have allowed the issue of an upset stomach to confine him to his quarters for the rest of the day – not unless it really was bad, which considering his allergy problems it possibly might have been. Phlox had certainly found some kind of complication as his third patient began to recover consciousness; he'd sent Liz Cutler rushing for some kind of additional treatment. She and Captain Archer hadn't had time to stop and find out what it might be. That anxiety now added itself to the one that had filled her as soon as The Realization had dawned on her.

Hell, no wonder the captain hadn't been able to look at her in the turbo-lift. That said, she'd hardly been able to look at him either.

She'd just come from Sickbay, where Phlox had run another set of tests to make sure that the last of her DNA had been restored. There was nobody else there. So whatever had been wrong with him, Malcolm must have been dismissed to complete his recovery in his quarters, probably at his own insistence.

The doctor had run the tests and nodded satisfaction. "All clear, Ensign, barring a few minor skin problems, and I'm confident they'll clear up in just a few days. There's just one more thing I'd like to give you as a precaution."

"Nothing serious, I hope?" She forced a smile.

"No, no." He sat down beside her on the biobed and spoke gently. "Hoshi, the scans reveal that you had sexual relations while you were one of the _Loque'eque._ There may have been some genetic differences that meant your usual contraceptive injections would not operate fully. In the circumstances, I think it might be wise to be just a little extra careful."

The color had washed up in a hot tide of embarrassment. She knew how detailed the scans were. There was a wealth of additional meaning behind that 'in the circumstances.'

The liaison between her and Malcolm wasn't exactly a total secret around the ship – Trip suspected it, Liz did too, and the captain had found out but indicated that he was prepared to turn a blind eye to it – but they'd kept it very, very discreet. Nevertheless she was regular in attending for her contraception, and Phlox was undoubtedly fully aware that she was in a serious relationship. His blue eyes were deeply sympathetic. "If you need a little more time to think about it ..."

In other 'circumstances' she might have hesitated. Even now she hesitated – for just a few seconds. Just long enough to contemplate what would ensue if for some reason the standard injection had failed; if the physical trauma of having her DNA rewritten hadn't caused ... Then, "I think you're right, Doctor," she said in a low voice. "And I'd rather get it over and done with."

Phlox had patted her shoulder reassuringly and went to fetch the hypospray. "It doesn't do to take risks when the situation is this complicated."

_Complicated._ 'Complicated' wasn't anywhere even close to what the situation was.

Now she took a deep breath and pressed the chime.

For a couple of moments there was no answer, and she wondered if he'd either deliberately gone to earth elsewhere so neither she nor anyone else could find him, or was simply sitting inside in silence refusing to acknowledge the request for admittance. The former was probably more likely. If he had indeed hidden himself on purpose she probably wouldn't see him again till he turned up for duty the following day, and the thought tore at her. At a guess, he wouldn't even visit the Mess Hall. He probably wouldn't feel like eating. On more than one count.

Just as she'd come to the conclusion that she was wasting her time, the door hissed open. He stood there clad in just a towel, his hair still spiky with damp. He said nothing, just looked at her. She realized with a sinking heart that his expression was more shuttered than she'd ever seen it, even in the early days of the mission when as far as he was concerned she was just a 'security liability with a gift for languages.' She'd hit him with a pillow the day he'd told her that, and they'd rolled over and over till he pinned her down and tickled her until she squealed for mercy ...

"Mind if I come in?"

He still didn't speak, but stepped back to allow her entry.

The monitor on his desk was still on. It was playing a recording from the decon chamber. A lone figure with tousled black hair flung itself desperately against the walls, screeching with frustration and rage. Even now she could understand what it was saying. '_Urquat, I must find Urquat. I must find my alphas. Let me go! Let me GO!'_

_I must find my alphas._

Alpha male and alpha female. And Archer had made it plain who had the rights to everything.

Being near – so very near – to Urquat had excited them all.

Privacy hadn't seemed important at the time. Nor had consideration. The shadow who'd looked on in sullen, resentful yearning had not dared to interfere, so his feelings had been of no importance.

She reached across and switched the monitor off. "Malcolm. We have to talk."

He didn't move or answer. His gaze remained fixed to the screen as though he was still watching that frenzied figure seeking escape.

"Malcolm. If we talk we can get through this. Isn't that what you want?"

"What I _want_ is to turn back time. To make it so we never set foot on that Godforsaken planet. To make it so that I never had to watch …" His voice was low and full of bitterness. He stopped, evidently unable to go on and voice the words. After a moment he said savagely, "The captain stopped by earlier. To apologise. I've never been closer to decking him."

The now blazing gray eyes turned to her at last. "Oh, I did feel for him though. It can't be the easiest of things for a commanding officer to apologise for. 'I hope you feel better now, and oh by the way I _am_ sorry I shagged your girlfriend in front of you …'"

"Malcolm!" she shouted. "You're not being fair. To him, to me, or even to yourself!"

"No. At a guess I'm probably not. But right now, I don't feel able to care." He stood up abruptly. "I want you to leave, Hoshi. Just leave me alone. Go and find your…." He broke off, breathing hard.

_'Alpha male.' _The words hung in the air between them, unspoken.

"I don't even know you any more," she said slowly. "The Malcolm I thought I knew valued fairness more than anything else. That was one of the things I loved about him the most."

"Then perhaps it's just as well you've had your eyes opened before it's too late. I'm no _perfect, gentle knight,_ Hoshi. I'm just me. Faults? Dozens. Flaws? Hundreds. Women? I lost count, but when I found you no other woman mattered anyway. And as for what I value, the one thing I value most of all is what we have." He swallowed. "'Had', if that's the way you feel."

"The way _I_ feel?" she cried. "All you're thinking about is what _you_ feel!"

"Yes! That's all I _can_ think about right now, don't you understand that? Just the way it was for you as soon as Archer got his hands on –" He choked and turned away. "Go away, Hoshi. If I keep talking I'll say something I'll regret. Something you probably don't deserve."

There was no reaching him. She backed towards the door. "Malcolm, none of us deserved this."

"No. But at least you two got something out of it other than heartache."

As she pressed the door control she looked at him just once more, willing him to turn and relent; even if it meant going on fighting, as long as they were talking surely they could find some way of resolving this? He wasn't facing her. He was sitting on the bunk again, his head bowed, his shoulders rigid and shaking with tension, and his fists clenched in his lap.

"Malcolm… ."

"Just go." It was so low that even with her superb hearing she could hardly catch it. "I'm sorry. I just … need some time. I want to be alone for a while."

There truly was nothing she could say that would touch him. The world that only days ago had been safe and secure was torn open and broken, his as well as hers. Maybe nothing could mend it. Maybe nothing ever would.

She walked out of the room, her eyes blind with tears._  
_

* * *

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	55. Rajin

"You wanted to see me, sir."

He was good at hiding what he needed to hide; his life had depended on it too often. He stood now at parade rest, immaculately neat and correct. His eyes were fixed on the bulkhead opposite him and his face was void of expression.

As soon as the order was given for him to remain behind in the Ready Room after the initial briefing he'd had a good idea what would be the subject under discussion. Nobody looking at him would have known that his stomach muscles were so tightly clenched they hurt, and that his brain was a maelstrom of pain, anger and exhaustion from too many nights of broken sleep.

"I want you to be a part of the away team, Malcolm." The captain spoke levelly. "I'm aware that you may still have ... issues. I just want your assurance that they won't affect your performance when we're down there."

_Don't worry, Captain. I've never yet shot my commanding officer in the back. However great the provocation._ Quite possibly he'd have blushed if he hadn't been pale with anger at the implied insult to his professionalism.

"I can promise you that they won't, sir."

"Malcolm." Archer's voice was quieter, perhaps even a little pleading. "This has got to be worked out. We need all of us on board if we're going to succeed in this mission."

"Any ... 'personal issues' have _never_ affected my professional conduct, sir." His tone was so cold that icicles hung from every syllable, and the other man drew back at the sound of it. "I'll carry out my duties to the letter, as I always have done, whatever and wherever. Further than that, I'd prefer to consider the subject of my 'issues' as private."

"When they affect the performance of two officers on this ship, then 'private' no longer applies," snapped the captain.

"As I've already assured, you, sir, they won't affect _my_ performance. As for anyone else, I believe you should address _them_ on their performance, rather than me." At the words 'their performance' a hint of fire flickered into his voice; they bore too apt a double edge, and came far too close to his pain for comfort.

Archer looked at him. "In ordinary circumstances, Malcolm, I'd say 'meet me outside, and we'll get this over and done with.' As it is, seven million people are dead and we have a job to do, and that doesn't allow for two of the ship's command personnel getting into a brawl because they can't settle things in a civilized manner. So until it's done, I'm just going to have to rely on your 'professional conduct' with regard to me and your sense of fairness with regard to Hoshi, because none of this was her fault."

"I would prefer to leave Ensign Sato out of the discussion, sir."

"Yes, so would I, but it seems to me that she's being punished for something she couldn't help. I hoped you and she would be able to work it out between you, but I have eyes. You evidently can't."

"With respect – _sir._" He couldn't keep the quiver of rage under control, so he shut his mouth before the rest of the sentence could escape. _That's none of your damned business._

"Oh, it is my business." Archer didn't need to be a telepath to know perfectly well what his subordinate officer had expressly not said. "If anyone was to blame for what happened back there it was me. So I can understand you probably want to punch my daylights out. But she didn't have any say in what happened."

Malcolm kept his jaw clenched. _She could have said 'No.' _The five words that had tormented his every waking moment. _She could have said 'No.'_

The captain looked at him steadily. "We don't have time to discuss this right now," he said. "We need to get that formula for the Trellium-D and we need to get it as soon as possible, because the next anomaly might take the ship apart. Meet me at the shuttlebay in ten minutes, with whatever weapons you think you'll need. Trip's coming with us."

With no more than a nod and a stiff 'Sir', he left the Ready Room. He went straight to the turbo-lift, ignoring with difficulty the strained eyes that followed him from the Comm Station. He couldn't look at her; it hurt too much.

He reached the Armoury in a couple of minutes. It was only a few seconds before a phase pistol was nestling in his hand.

Keeping the weaponry ready for instant use was his department's primary responsibility. It was utterly unnecessary to check that the power cell was fully charged, but he did so anyway because that was part of the routine.

Ready to fire, as he'd known it would be. Smooth and deadly. His thumb stroked across the control that changed the setting from 'Stun' to 'Kill'.

_I've never yet shot my commanding officer in the back. _

_But there's always a first time._

* * *

He emerged from Decon as soon as Phlox released him.

It had been a difficult half-hour. He had deliberately spent most of it sitting with his eyes closed, ignoring the captain and the slave-woman whom Archer had somehow rescued and decided to bring up to the ship. He and Trip had done the honours for each other with the decontamination gel, and even then he'd been careful to stand so that he didn't have to watch the hands sliding over female skin again.

The circumstances were entirely different; even now he acknowledged that. Not for a moment did he think, even facing away from what was happening, that the captain would act with anything other than absolutely professional correctness. Nevertheless he was utterly unable to separate one from the other. His pulse alternately speeded up and slowed down, as he tried repeatedly to get his breathing under control.

He had to get this sorted somehow. It couldn't go on. Here in the Expanse he needed a clear head as he'd never needed one before.

Whether he wanted to or not, he had to talk to Hoshi.

There were still a couple of hours to go before the end of their shift, however, and he and Trip had to pay another visit to the planet before he was free to pursue his own agenda. The payment for the formula had been agreed, and it would hardly be in keeping with the purported value of the trade goods for them to be brought down without escort. In ordinary circumstances, he thought with a pang, he and Trip would have had a hard time keeping their faces straight as they handed over a case of spices in return for that extremely valuable formula; but then these weren't ordinary circumstances. Ever since the news about the attack on Earth, however, Trip had virtually forgotten how to smile. And in the last few days it wasn't something he himself had exactly felt like doing either. They would be as dour and businesslike as a pair of hoodlums as they carried out the transaction.

Time was, too, when he might even have felt reckless and desperate enough to confide his troubles to Trip and ask his advice. Granted, as one of Jon's oldest friends he would hardly be impartial; but that lack of impartiality wouldn't have stopped him from giving the matter fair consideration. Maybe just being able to _share_ his troubles would have helped. Over the course of the mission Malcolm had fallen into the habit of trusting Trip, of considering him a friend – the best friend he'd ever had, not that he'd ever had many. The sensation now of being unable to turn to him for a sympathetic hearing, and perhaps some good advice, was both new and unwelcome. Although he'd never have admitted it to his face, Reed was fully aware that behind that irksome Yankee accent, reprehensible sense of humour and deplorable sartorial taste, there lurked a keen intellect and a warm and affectionate nature. He'd depended on both more heavily than he'd realised, and now felt the loss of the latter almost as painfully as the separation from Hoshi. Each person in their individual ways had breached the walls of his fortress, and now the cold wind keened through the gaps.

Trip stalked off to the Mess Hall to pick up the spices. Doubtless this would involve some resistance from Chef, who cherished his ingredients with rather more passion than most people did their children. For want of something to do while he waited for him to return, Malcolm decided to pay a visit to the Armoury. He'd have preferred to accompany the new arrival, just to keep a beady eye on her for a while (this being the reason he'd bothered going through Decon), but he'd been waved away. Mr. Paranoid was surplus to requirements as usual. So he had a few minutes to kill.

The Armoury, he was pleased to see, was its usual orderly self. He went into his office as a matter of habit, to see if he had any messages. There were a few, most of which didn't look urgent. But one surprised him: a request for a private meeting from Em, his Gamma Shift deputy. She was asleep right now, so it would have to be later on. She'd suggested a time and a place, and said it was important. He frowned. She wasn't in the habit of making mountains out of molehills, and she was so good at looking after her own team that he could hardly remember more than a couple of occasions during the entire mission when she'd referred any problem to him because she couldn't deal with it. It certainly must be something fairly serious, and he immediately sent back an acceptance of the proposed arrangements. It was late, and he'd be tired himself, but it was about the most reasonable period she could have come up with in view of their shift pattern.

"Tucker to Reed." The comm called in. "I'd rather get down and back again as soon as we can. I thought you'd be the same."

"Definitely, Sir." A spasm of regret for the times when his response would have been rather less formal. "I'll be there in two minutes."

He glanced at the monitor again. Now he had something else to worry about.

Bloody wonderful.

* * *

"Ensign?"

He stepped into the gym and looked around, surprised that nobody appeared to be here. Em was as strict about punctuality as he was himself.

"Boss." She was here, just in one of the smaller cubicles off to one side. She didn't come out to meet him, which added to his faint puzzlement. After a momentary hesitation, he walked over to the door.

She was just completing a series of warm-up exercises. According to his calculations, she wouldn't have had time to go to breakfast yet, but she looked alert and well rested. Considerably better than he did himself, in fact.

"You sent me a message that you needed to speak to me about something important."

"_Sí, Patrón._" She walked towards him and to his bewilderment pressed the door control, closing it behind him. "We need to talk about something very important indeed."

"I'm all ears. Though I don't exactly see..."

"I challenge you to a practice match. A sparring session. And every time I get you to the floor you have to answer me a question. Honestly and completely. Is it a bargain?"

If he'd been a cat he'd have laid his ears back. He did not like the way this was shaping up at all.

"This hardly seems a professional approach," he said sharply.

"Possibly not. Perhaps what we need to find out is how much you trust me." She stopped, facing him. Her long black hair was knotted up at the back of her head, and her arms were crossed over her chest, possibly in a deliberate imitation of the way he himself stood so often. She was a very attractive woman, even in baggy training clothes; her face had the fine bone structure that would keep its beauty even into old age. The thought crossed his mind that she was, for some unknown reason, trying to defuse his anger; it must have been evident to his staff that he wasn't – for want of a more accurate term – his usual cheerful self. It was unlikely, however. He could imagine that if she thought he was being unfair to his department she'd come in and have the matter out with him upfront, but not like this.

So. How much _did_ he trust her?

Quite a lot, when he came to consider. She'd been one of the first choices when he had the chance of appointing his seconds when he came on board. Ever since then she'd amply justified his faith in her. She was cool in a crisis, decisive when it mattered, and a crack shot. She could strip and rebuild a phase pistol possibly quicker than he could. Her reports were accurate, detailed and invariably delivered on time. Her shift ran like clockwork.

Nevertheless, as things stood it was a bit of an uneven bargain.

"So what do I get every time I get _you_ to the floor?"

Her eyes danced. "I will make you a cup of tea and tell everyone in the Mess Hall that the English football team is better than Spain's. It will be hard to lie, but _¡demonios,_ it will be in a worthy cause!"

He had to laugh. Although he took little interest in sports, they'd occasionally ribbed each other on the lamentable disparity between their national soccer teams' abilities. On his part it was more a question of patriotism than enthusiasm for the sport itself, but it was one of the threads of which their relationship was woven. There was no doubt that having to perjure herself in front of an audience would be a penance she would long remember.

"Give me a minute."

She nodded and walked off to get a drink while he stripped off his uniform and boots and changed into the tracksuit bottoms and tank top he'd brought with him. He'd intended to use the gym facilities after dealing with whatever issue Em wanted to bring to his attention, and now began loosening up himself. He was still puzzled and a little angry, but he wasn't the man to refuse a challenge. Before he'd have to answer any questions she'd have to get him down on the floor, and he was not an easy opponent to get the better of.

The sparring mats were laid out ready. It only took him a few minutes to go through the necessary cardio and stretching exercises and get the blood pumping. He'd had a long day, but the prospect of a lively bout was enough to get the adrenaline flowing; although the two of them had not pitted themselves against each other for a very long time, he had a healthy respect for her ability. She'd studied almost as many martial arts as he had, and used moves from any one of them quite without pattern or warning. He knew that she'd had coaching from T'Pol in some of the more complex Vulcan techniques.

The two of them squared up and dropped into a crouch. For some moments they circled each other, feinting once or twice. There was no sound in the gym room but their breathing, and the soft footfalls on the matting.

He opened accounts first, aiming a high kick at her shoulder. She dodged, throwing herself under it and striking out at his ribs with the back of her fist. It contacted only air, and she rolled and came upright again before he could follow up. He danced backwards out of range, watching her narrowly.

For some five minutes they traded passes and strikes, neither making any significant contact. At one point he almost got her in a lock but she wriggled out of it, forcing him to some pretty lively footwork himself to avoid a counter-move. She should, by rights, have moved back when the ploy failed, but she didn't. Risking a hard blow, she moved in on him again and got a knee around his thigh. A push just as the hook overbalanced him, and he found himself on the mat with her on top of him.

"_Bueno._" She sat on his chest, not helping his attempts to retrieve some of the air the crash had forced out of his lungs. "You owe me an answer."

He gasped a bit, more to buy himself some time than because he was actually seriously short of breath. He was perfectly able to free himself if he'd needed to, and both of them knew it. The fact that he remained there was a concession of sorts.

"An answer to what?" he growled at last.

She folded her arms and tilted her head to one side. Apparently his attempt to glare her into discretion was unsuccessful. "Why are you angry with Hoshi?"

His hands slammed flat on to the matting. He had to hit something, and if he hit her when he was in this temper he would damage her. "That's none of your bloody business!"

"And that is not the answer to the question," she said calmly. "_Hicimos un trato, Patrón._ Here is the floor; there are you on it. You owe me an answer."

He made several attempts to speak, and stopped each one. He had the best of reasons to know that she was no stranger to bad language (she had, indeed, widened his vocabulary with a great many Spanish expressions from time to time), but trying to explain the situation without using Captain Archer, Hoshi and any one of several Anglo-Saxon derivatives in the same sentence was, at that moment, beyond him. And even if he was, at that particular moment, flat on his back under his junior officer and they were both off duty, he still owed something to the conduct expected of a Starfleet officer.

Finally, seeing that she was prepared to perch on his chest indefinitely if she had to, he mastered his anger enough to put a terse explanation together. Even now he couldn't go into the details. Somehow he got out the word 'intimate' and left her to draw her own conclusions. That adjective alone was almost enough to choke him with rage.

Instead of seeming outraged, or even shocked, Em simply nodded. _"Así que fueras celoso – como el infierno." _Seeing him scowl as he struggled with the translation, she added, 'Jealous as hell.'

Without waiting for his answer, or even seeming to expect one, she hopped up again. _"Vale. Entonces, sigamos adelante."_

He was more than ready to 'get on with it'. And this time he was going to make sure she didn't get a chance to ask any more questions. It wasn't that he didn't trust her not to talk – he most emphatically did trust her; but his wounds were too new and far too raw to have anyone poking around in them, especially uninvited.

Besides, he thought to himself with a grim smile, the England soccer team could do with all the support they could get.

Ten minutes later he was two cups of tea to the good and Em's status as a staunch supporter of the Spanish national side promised to be seriously brought into question. They were both somewhat blown by this time; it had been a hard-fought bout, and with no-one to referee they'd had to call a halt for themselves and sit opposite each other on the mat, getting their breath back. It was unusual for a contest to go on this long, but they hadn't set a duration and so far neither of them had called time. Malcolm, for one, felt that he could go on for a while longer. If nothing else, the violent exercise would go some way – if not a lot – towards helping him sleep.

As soon as Em caught his eye and nodded, he began getting to his feet. At which point she launched herself at him, and once more he found himself on his back with her on top of him.

Genuinely angry, he opened his mouth to protest, but she laid a hand lightly across it.

"No, it was not fair," she said quietly. "It was not fair at all. But then you are in no position to complain."

He closed his mouth. She released it and tidied a lock of dark hair that had flopped across his forehead. The gesture reminded him for no reason at all of Maddie.

"You are a good man," Em said gently. "If Hoshi had been attacked – if she had been raped – you would not have blamed her as you are doing now. You would have helped her."

"It wasn't a rape." His throat closed up. The memories scorched him. _She could have said 'No.' _But she hadn't. Whatever else it had been, it hadn't been rape.

"No." She nodded assent. "It probably was not. But there again, I have seen the recordings of the Loque'eque they imprisoned in the decontamination chamber. He was not exactly well-behaved either."

Malcolm flushed angrily. "He was afraid."

"Indeed. _Y con razón._ Yet you find compassion for the behaviour of the person who wore your body, but for a man and a woman dear to you, who had as little control over their bodies as you did over yours, you can find none."

He had not thought of it in that light before. He winced.

She said nothing for a few moments, watching him absorb that concept. Then she lifted herself off him and sat beside him, cross-legged and watching him seriously. "If you – _usted, usted mismo_ – had been in the decontamination chamber, you would have calmed that man. You would have explained to him that he had no need to fear. His behaviour would have been very different. But you were not."

He stared up at the ceiling. It was easier to talk to that than to the grave beautiful face studying him with such concern. But even talking to the ceiling, it was almost impossible to articulate his darkest fear – one that couldn't be talked away.

"If I couldn't remember – I – perhaps I could – but what if she remembers and I'm –" He clenched his fists until the nails dug into his palms. _She could have said 'No.' _The unjust accusation still ran through his mind, an anguished howl. Then he wouldn't be haunted by the fear that his performance wouldn't live up to the standards set by the _Alpha Male._

Situation normal. Malcolm the Also-Ran. Malcolm the Failure.

"Malcolm." Em touched his shoulder gently. "You have slept with other women before Hoshi, yes?"

He spoke to the ceiling, feeling the blush stain his cheeks. "Yes. Of course."

"And some of them, perhaps, more _bien proporcionado_ than she?"

He didn't understand the phrase, but her hands described the shape in the air. He nodded reluctantly. It had seemed important at the time, until he discovered Hoshi's slender perfection.

"_Bien._ And so when you are making love to Hoshi, you think of these other women and wish she was so, and so, other than as she is."

"Of course I –" He made to sit up angrily, and then saw too late the trap that had closed on him. Of course he didn't, and she knew that perfectly well. "Bloody hell."

"For the good of the ship, as well as for yourself and Hoshi, this must be mended." She folded her arms again. "I will not have two good friends who love one another parted for no reason."

"Yes, Commander," he said wryly. The depth of her insight into the situation was as worrying as it was surprising, but then he'd already known that she was very observant – one of the qualities that made a good tactical officer. He wasn't sure that he'd yet got around to applying the word 'love' to what he felt for Hoshi, but the depth of the pain he'd been in since the breach between them had taught him how deeply he cared for her. And he'd been wary of trying to analyse what she felt for him; the wonderful suggestion that she actually might be in love with him was so surprising he'd have to consider it with care.

"_Excelente._ So now you will go to Hoshi and the two of you will kiss and make up, and you will forgive the _capitán_ for something he could not help."

She helped him to sit up, but he draped his arms across his knees and bit his lip. "After the way I've behaved, she'll probably tell me to sling my hook as soon as she claps eyes on me."

"_Quizás_. But when all is said and done, she loves you. And I am sure that the Malcolm Reed who loves her will be brave and clever enough to find some tactics to get through her defences." She clapped a hand on his shoulders. _"¿Qué estás esperando?_"

The communicator panel on the wall chose that precise moment to broadcast an urgent ship-wide message: _"Tucker to Security!"_

He closed his eyes for an instant and then scrambled to his feet. Em grabbed his discarded uniform and thrust it at him while he stripped off his leisure clothes; off duty or not, he would never ignore such a summons. While he hurriedly got changed she contacted the Commander and discovered his whereabouts: he was in Sub-Commander T'Pol's quarters, at a guess attending for one of his neuropressure sessions – or whatever these sessions actually involved. Rumours, of course, abounded.

"Get the pistol from my quarters, it'll be quicker than going to yours or the Armoury. And if you need me, call for me. _Como siempre._"

"_Lo sé. Gracias." _His accent was still terrible. He knew it from the amused gleam in response. Maybe he could get Hoshi to give him lessons.

Despite the urgency of the call, however, he snatched a second to offer his hand, palm forward and fingers spread. Hers met it and clasped it briefly. Trip and Hoshi weren't his only friends on board. He'd let himself forget that, and it wouldn't happen again.

Then the needs of the ship took over, and he started running.

* * *

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	56. Impulse

Lieutenant Reed turned wearily away from the Sickbay doors. At least he hadn't been the one needing treatment in there today; he'd stayed only long enough to see T'Pol sedated and safe, and then he left the scene of the crime, satisfied that his part in the away mission was over.

He supposed that at some point he'd have to talk to Hayes and explain how Hawkins had come by his injury (and the arrogant oaf would probably insinuate it was some failure of care on his part!), but right now he was too worn out to bother. He wanted a shower, a change of clothes and a rest, and maybe after that he'd feel more like eating. At the moment, although he'd been woken in the middle of his off-duty period and hadn't even had breakfast, he had no appetite at all. He didn't feel much like trying to catch up on his missed hours of sleep, either. After the scenes he'd witnessed on the _Seleya_, he wasn't too keen on what he might dream about if he did.

He had a narrow escape from being mown down when the turbo-lift door opened and Trip hurtled out of it. It was just as well that T'Pol was the next best thing to unconscious; Tucker would have been beside himself to see her as she was when the captain carried her in. No doubt he'd remain in there until she was at least on the way to recovery. "Trip, she's –" he shouted after the racing figure, but he doubted that the engineer had heard him.

Sighing, he made his way to his quarters. At least they were all still alive, and there had been times during the away mission when he'd seriously doubted whether any of them would make it back to _Enterprise _in one piece. It could have been worse – he had to take what comfort he could from that.

Once in his cabin, he peeled off his uniform, grunting slightly as the movements made him aware of how battered he was. He dropped the lot into the laundry chute with a grimace – every piece of it was stinking of smoke and sweat. As he did so, however, the scenes aboard the Vulcan ship came back to him with horrifying clarity.

He leaned against the wall, breathing hard.

Had he made a mistake with realigning those actuator circuits ... _had_ he? He was all but sure he'd followed T'Pol's instructions to the letter, but her wild accusations had shaken his confidence. If he had made a mistake, he could well have got them all killed. As it was, the failure of that ploy had left them no choice but to overload the power grid, causing the reactor breach that had destroyed the ship.

He looked at his fingers. His brain replayed the picture of them moving on the console, inputting the commands that directly caused the death of over a hundred and forty Vulcans – or as many of them as were still alive by now, and in that battered hulk it was likely that they'd already sustained heavy casualties. But however many there'd been, he'd killed them. All of them.

Phlox had said they were dying anyway. Certainly they were insane; the empty madness of their eyes had told him that. The knowledge had helped him to keep using his phase rifle steadily, to block out the horror of firing on the very people they'd come in hope of rescuing. Maybe they'd rather have been dead than reduced to those vicious, shambling caricatures of their former selves, but that wasn't the point. They were Vulcans; they were_ alive._ Well ... they had been, until he blew their ship to Kingdom Come.

More blood on his hands.

This was the Expanse; he'd better get used to it. Pity knew how much more there'd be before they were finished.

He shuddered. He'd done enough killing in his time, but this was different.

And suppose T'Pol didn't believe him when she recovered? She would blame him for what they'd had to do. Maybe she'd blame him anyway. _Had_ he made a mistake? He didn't think so, but he couldn't prove it. And suppose she didn't recover fully, or suffered some kind of a relapse? As his superior officer she could override the code of his door lock. He could imagine all too vividly the strong, hard, slender fingers at his throat, cutting off his air supply.

He actually found himself contemplating creating an encryption for his own door lock that would keep even senior officers out. In ordinary circumstances he'd never have dreamed of doing such a thing, but this was the Expanse. The fate of the _Seleya _was a grim warning of how much mercy they could expect out here.

Oh, come on. Was _he_ losing his marbles now? Expecting his own colleagues to turn on him with murderous intentions?

Maybe the Vulcans on the _Seleya_ had thought it couldn't happen. Maybe they'd hesitated at first, till they started to die...

_Might as well get something done, instead of just standing here making myself even more 'paranoid' than usual. _He pushed off from the wall and went into the bathroom. He switched on the water and didn't wait for it to warm up; the blast of cold almost made him shout, but went some way towards clearing his head. Nothing like a dunking in icy water to bring you back to reality with a thud.

There was a bottle of shower gel still hanging on the hook in one corner. His own was sitting on the floor beneath it. That's what came of being gentlemanly – you let the lady use the fixtures. As soon as he stopped shivering, almost of its own accord his hand went out and took up the gel. His thumb flipped the lid of it, and the perfume drifted out into the gathering steam, achingly familiar.

He hadn't been able to talk to her. He'd tried, but somehow something always got in the way. He'd never before realised what a circle of friends she had, but then she was his exact opposite in that respect: she radiated warmth, and people were drawn to it like moths to a flame. Wasn't he in the best position of all to know?

Every time he'd tried to track her down she was always busy, always with someone else. He was beginning to suspect she was deliberately arranging it that way, either to distract herself or to punish him – or maybe even a little of both. It wasn't that he didn't think he deserved punishment, because in hindsight he'd behaved like a total git. If she wanted to punch his daylights out for it he'd lie down and let her. But it wasn't until this breach had opened up between them that he'd realised quite how dependent he'd become on her; on her companionship, her friendship, not just her body, though he missed that desperately. For the first time he could remember, he was utterly lonely. And not just lonely, but frightened – frightened that someone else would step into his place, and that she'd discover someone who deserved her more, who'd treat her better. Not who loved her more, because it was borne in on him now that he loved her more than he'd ever thought it possible to love another human being, but after the way he'd acted she was hardly likely to guess that. And she sure as hell didn't seem inclined to give him the chance to tell her so.

He sank down on to the floor and put his head in his hands.

_What if she doesn't forgive me? _

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	57. Exile

_"Hoshi, what's wrong?"_ he yelled. _"Hoshi!"_

He didn't wait for her to answer, or give him permission to enter her quarters. His fingers were hammering the override into her access panel almost before he'd skidded to a halt outside it. Backup was coming; even in these circumstances he wasn't foolish enough to think he could tackle an intruder alert on his own. But there was no way in hell he was leaving Hoshi alone for an instant longer than necessary after he'd heard the fear in her voice.

Very fortunately she'd had the sense to curl up small in a corner, because as he burst into her cabin his finger was ready to pull the trigger of the phase pistol that was poised in his hand, and anything that moved would have been a possible target. But apart from her, the room seemed to be empty. Nothing moved, inviting retribution.

"What's wrong?" he demanded again, striding over to crouch beside her, turning the muzzle of the pistol slowly to cover the rest of the cabin. It had only taken him a moment to see the fear in her face, and the sight of it filled him with a rage that was almost murderous.

"There was an intruder. He was standing over there." She nodded towards the corner furthest from the one where she'd taken refuge. Her voice was trembling slightly, but she was making a valiant effort to steady it. "But he ... he just disappeared."

"Disappeared, how?" The obvious place – the only place, barring the wardrobe (which was unlikely, though he'd check it first as a matter of course), was the bathroom. Reed glared at the closed door.

"I don't know. One minute he was there, and the next ... the next he just wasn't."

The word _Suliban_ flashed across his mind, bringing dread with it. If one of them had got on board somehow – or even more than one ...

"And there was a voice," she said hesitantly.

"Let me just check the room out first." He couldn't concentrate while he was still waiting for an attack.

The wardrobe proved innocent. So did the bathroom. Ensign Müller arrived with one of the MACOs and was sent to fetch a scanner, but that turned up nothing, no trace of alien presence whatsoever. The door showed no sign of forced entry.

It was all most perplexing.

"Stand down the alert, Bernhard," he said at last, after giving the other two men orders to leave. "But I want four men to patrol the ship constantly for the next twenty four hours, and if they see anything out of the ordinary I want to know about it."

_"Ja_, _Herr Leutnant_." The door closed behind them.

He turned back into the cabin. Hoshi was now on the bed, looking so woebegone that his heart turned over. But when she saw him looking at her, her expression immediately turned mulish. "Malcolm, I did not imagine it."

"I didn't say ..."

"You didn't have to. I know you, remember?" She picked up one of her pillows and hurled it at him; he dodged automatically. "You think I'm still a scared little girl fresh out from the Academy, and I'm seeing things."

"Hoshi, will you give me a chance ...?"

"To do what?" she demanded furiously. "To call me over-imaginative? Hysterical? Or 'the captain's whore'? Because that's what you think I am, isn't it?"

He paled a little, but stood his ground. "No. It's not."

"No. I forgot. Whores get paid for their services, don't they, and I give mine away for free. That's the difference."

"Hoshi. I've been trying to get to talk to you for days," he said desperately. "We need to talk. Please. You said it yourself."

"Well, I've got news for you, Malcolm: _I_ don't want to talk to _you._ You made it plain enough last time what you thought about me. I can do without hearing the details." Her eyes were sparking with hurt and anger. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."

"I was wrong. Totally, completely, utterly in the wrong." He forced the words through stiff lips. "None of it was your fault. Or the captain's."

"Oh, hey, how long did it take you to work _that_ out?" She scuffled backwards on the bed and huddled in the corner, cuddling her one remaining pillow. "Go away, Malcolm. I'll call you if I see any more hallucinations."

He stared at her in horrified disbelief. She hadn't said _it's over._ She didn't have to.

"I'll run the scans anyway." His voice was so calm and controlled he hardly recognised it. Lieutenant Reed, in full Security Officer mode: the cold, efficient bastard, operating on auto-pilot.

"You go ahead and do that. And while you're about it, get Phlox to run one on you. I don't know how the blood gets around your body, considering you haven't got one of the things that's supposed to pump it."

There was nothing he could say in reply to that. He knew he did have a heart, because something in his chest was tearing in two, but she didn't want to hear about it.

Well, he'd wanted resolution and now he had it.

_It was over_.

* * *

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	58. The Shipment

He was at the turbo lift when Hoshi turned the corner. For just a moment she hesitated.

He took a step towards her. "Hoshi..."

Her face hardened. She'd seen his expression when she'd argued for the wisdom of remaining with Tarquin; he hadn't been able to hide his doubts. His suggestion that _Enterprise_ remain in orbit hadn't exactly indicated his faith in her either. He refused to take her seriously – he just saw her as some stupid little girl he had to nursemaid. At a guess, he'd probably argued against taking the co-ordinates Tarquin had given her too seriously as well. Or else wondered exactly what she'd done to get hold of them.

But then given what he thought of her, maybe he wasn't wondering. Maybe he thought he knew.

"Give my regards to Major Hayes." And she spun on her heel and strode in the opposite direction. Trying not to think about the look on his face.

* * *

It was quiet on the Bridge after the shuttlepod had left. The ship remained in position behind the moon that was concealing them from the Xindi planet and waited. Corporal Hawkins and the assault team sat in the launch bay beside Shuttlepod 2, patiently awaiting orders to carry out their part in the plan that had been carefully put together before the reconnaissance team departed to survey the ground. If there was a refinery down there, very shortly it was going to be an ex-refinery. The MACOs had ample experience to ensure that. Its loss would be a blow to the weapon production, hopefully one that would delay its launch long enough for _Enterprise_ to track it down. At a guess, that was why the captain had wanted Major Hayes to accompany them; he was checking out the site for the way to cause the maximum possible damage. The clear inference that the captain thought the ship's own explosives expert incapable of making such an assessment would be one more gouge to his tactical officer's already lacerated pride.

The call came to say that Shuttlepod 1 had landed safely, and that the away team had reached the complex that they suspected of being a refinery. After that, the captain stated his intention of maintaining radio silence for the next couple of hours, and Hoshi asked for permission to take a break, since she was overdue one and would most likely not be needed for a while. T'Pol nodded, and as soon as one of the Bridge support crew stepped up to take her place she slipped away, grateful for a change of scene.

The mess hall was no more than half full, so there were plenty of places available. Most of the crew were talking quietly, aware that the ship's situation was uncertain. There were none of her particular friends present, however, so she sat alone, grateful at some level to be spared the necessity of making idle small-talk.

With her exceptional hearing, she'd long ago had to develop the discipline of tuning out conversations all around her. She did so now, trying to practice some Vulcan meditation techniques she'd learned from T'Pol. Granted, this would be considerably easier in the privacy of her cabin than it was here, but there were distractions in her cabin.

Her bed, for one.

The bunk that had been exasperatingly narrow for two was now far too wide for one. She couldn't lie in it without being assailed by memories. Even her dreams conspired against her, so that almost every night she woke quivering to the thunder of her own pulse, with a body so convinced of his presence that she reached out blindly before learning all over again that she'd lost him.

Her righteous anger had carried her for some considerable time before calmer reflections set in. Presently it had occurred to her to set herself in his shoes – to consider how she would feel if she had to watch him making love to some attractive member of the ship's crew. And she didn't have the previous deep emotional damage that she'd learned something of while they'd been close. Malcolm's hard exterior was, to at least some extent, a protection he'd acquired, that he'd _created,_ in self-defense. He rarely talked of his childhood, but from the odd bitter aside he'd dropped she could gather it had been even less happy than hers. She'd been isolated because she was gifted, removed from ordinary family life because her talent was perceived as something that should be nurtured – even at the cost of her emotional well-being, which had necessarily suffered. Tarquin had picked up on that with unsettling accuracy, had tried to use her sense of isolation to persuade her to remain with him. It hadn't been possible; even if she'd felt any more for him than pity, his eventual desperate use of trickery had alienated and frightened her, and she'd been relieved when he'd finally accepted defeat.

Malcolm, however, had been isolated not because he was perceived to be of value, but quite the opposite – because he was a disappointment. Ever since this had been borne in upon him, he'd flogged himself in pursuit of perfection, perhaps not even realizing how desperately he needed approval and acceptance to fill the void left by his father's contempt. She was beginning to realize that for all his formidable defenses, once you got past them he was possibly one of the most vulnerable men she'd ever known.

It was a testament to his feelings for her that he'd allowed her past those defenses, to let her see the lonely, insecure self behind them. But it was never going to be an easy relationship. Neither of them were good at emotional connections; she had the social side of it nailed pretty well, as evidenced by the huge number of friends she had, but getting close – this close – to someone was hard for her. And she'd just had to pick someone who was even more emotionally inept than she was.

At first she'd thought it was worth it. They always said the quiet ones were the ones to watch, and once Malcolm had shed his Starfleet blues he was a revelation. But it hadn't been just the sex that had astonished her. He was cultured and well-read, as well as surprisingly gentle and playful - the latter something she had not expected. He had a witty, subtle sense of humor, and given that the opportunities for romance aboard a starship were few and far between (particularly when your relationship was supposed to be a closely guarded secret anyway) he'd proved that underneath that rigid British exterior there lurked a sensitive and imaginative lover who could turn her heart over with a phrase whispered in her ear as they exited the turbo-lift on the way to the Bridge for duty.

But that insecurity was part of him. And he would always be on guard, always afraid that his happiness was too good to be true – that once again he'd be found wanting, and end up with the loser's medal.

Did she need somebody whose vulnerability would make him an easy prey to jealousy, as Malcolm so clearly was? Somebody whose trust in himself, in others and even in life was that fragile? Could she sustain that kind of burden? Even if they patched things up, was there a future for a relationship between them, or would it be kinder to both of them to just finish it now?

_So much for meditation._ She realized that her tea had gone cold, and drank it, grimacing. Her break time was almost over; she ought to be getting back to the Bridge.

At that moment she caught a fragment of a conversation at a nearby table. It had contained a scattering of words in Spanish, which was what had grabbed her attention. After a second or two she recognized the speaker as Ensign Gomez, one of Malcolm's deputies in the Armory. She'd made some progress in establishing a friendship with Em since becoming close to her superior officer, having discovered the extremely high regard in which Malcolm held her, though the other woman's zest for danger was still something of a mystery to her. Nevertheless the words she'd accidentally overheard were so startling that for a moment she wondered if she'd actually misunderstood what the ensign was saying.

"…It will be good for him to have a distraction. Sit beside him at Movie Night. Ask him for extra tuition with phase pistols. Say you would be interested in self-defence classes. Talk his language. He is not slow, he will catch your drift quickly enough."

Hoshi turned her head incredulously. Em was talking to one of the science crew, a rather diminutive person with a gentle, pretty face and a cloud of soft blonde hair. They were sitting close together and leaning in, and it was unlikely that anyone else would have heard their conversation.

"You're sure it's not too early?" the other woman said hesitantly. "I mean, if they're …"

"It is never too early when a relationship is over," replied Gomez confidently. "She does not want him, anyone can see it. He is a good man, and now he is a lonely man. _¡__Más engañarla!_ So why not?"

"Yeah. Why not?" A look of hope appeared. "I'll give it a try."

The two of them stood up. At that moment Em looked across and saw Hoshi. A faintly defiant expression crossed her face, and she shrugged. There was a world of Latin eloquence in that shrug.

_So much for friendship, hey?_

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	59. Twilight

The anomaly ran through the ship with bruising force.

Here in the Expanse, anomalies were just something of which the _Enterprise_ had to run the risk. Trellium-D would have afforded the ship protection, but although they had managed to harvest a quantity of the raw material from an asteroid field, one of its less-well-known properties had prevented them from using it: it was toxic to the Vulcan neurosystem. The ship had recently attempted a rescue of the crew of the Vulcan ship _Seleya_, adrift and helpless in the same asteroid field, and that attempt had ended with the stricken vessel exploding, with not a single person on it rescued. The reasons for this were not widely known, but the failure could hardly escape being common knowledge. It was also common knowledge that T'Pol had been brought back from it raving like a lunatic; presumably this was from the effects of the Trellium-D with which the Vulcans had unknowingly begun plating their own ship in the effort to protect it. The captain had needed to carry her through _Enterprise_ from the shuttlebay to Sickbay, and far too many people had seen them for it to be hushed up. Many-tongued rumor had run wild through the corridors, and although when she was finally released from Sickbay she had seemed her old calm and collected self, the crew had eyed her with a certain amount of trepidation ever since.

Hoshi lay on her bed that evening and stared at the bulkhead above her, willing sleep to come. The captain had suffered minor injuries thanks to the anomaly, as had T'Pol, and he was still in Sickbay. The only other casualty of any note had been the starboard nacelle. Repairs to that were under way. She'd heard Malcolm offer his services to help with the repairs as she left the bridge at the end of their shift. Doubtless he was blind weary, as they all were, but it was vital that the nacelle be restored to working status as soon as possible. Every second counted – somewhere out here that Xindi weapon was under construction, and the countdown to its launch was ticking away.

Trip would be in charge of the repairs, of course, and knowing him he'd be up to his elbows in the guts of the systems rather than maintaining his proper supervisory role. Trip, who'd once been the warm heart of the ship, was reduced to a shell of himself. It had only been lately that he'd roused himself to reinstate Movie Night. She found herself wondering whether the movie would be cancelled this evening, in view of the fact that the originator thereof probably wouldn't be able to attend it in person. Perhaps someone would postpone it. She herself certainly wouldn't be going. Time had been when she'd have been anxious to go, but that had been when she'd had the reassuring hand of a certain Armory Officer to hold during the scary parts. The very last thing she needed was to turn up and witness him holding someone else's hand, and she'd recently had proof positive that his deputy Em Gomez was actively conspiring to have a particular candidate fill the place that she'd vacated. Stephanie Flynn from Exobiology was not just pretty and bright, she also had that air of ethereal fragility that appeared to make men feel she needed their protection – a need that might all too readily appeal to Malcolm, now deprived of anyone to shelter under his wing.

Well, it seemed she just wasn't going to sleep right now. She sure didn't want to watch the movie (and still less what might be going on in the auditorium), so that was out. Perhaps a workout might help to tire her enough to let her catch some rest. She deliberately blanked out the thought of the nights when she'd fallen asleep with her head on a muscular chest, lulled by the steady double thump of his heartbeat and the slow stroking of his fingers through her hair.

She'd left her hair loose for the night, but if she was going to work out she preferred to have it caught up; it was less in the way. Sitting up, she reached for the clip she used to secure her ponytail, but it was close to the edge of her bedside cabinet and it fell down behind it instead.

Muttering a malediction in Ancient Klingon, she got down on her knees and started groping for the clip in the narrow space. Her fingers encountered something else, however, and she pulled them back in a startled reflex before realizing with a little nervous laugh that what she'd found was only a sock. She put her hand back in and pulled it out.

It wasn't one of hers.

She remembered now. It had gone flying during a somewhat frantic disrobing the night before they'd arrived at the planet where everything had gone so disastrously wrong. They'd got up very early the next morning, as they always did, and he'd had to flit away to his cabin without it when it couldn't be found; they'd intended to carry out a proper search for it later on, but events and the Loque'eque had intervened and its existence had been forgotten, at least by her. If he'd ever remembered it, it was hardly likely that he'd even contemplated coming to ask for it back.

Well, she sure didn't want it as a souvenir. Chances were he'd still be up in the nacelle catwalk, helping with the repairs. Or in the mess hall, making sure Stephanie Flynn didn't squeak too loudly at the scary scenes in the movie. Or perhaps even in the Armory, giving her private tuition in phase pistol shooting. Failing that, the gym. Self-defense lessons. At a guess Flynn wouldn't put very much effort into defending herself. Far better to fall innocently into the grip of those strong arms, to be pressed down under that hard body...

_You let him go, remember?_

Her route could take her past his cabin. It would be the work of a moment to drop it in, and then it would be gone. She'd listen for a moment before she went in, to make absolutely sure that he wasn't there. He'd given her the code to his room when their relationship turned serious, so that she could slip in with the minimum of danger of being observed. Unless he'd changed it since, she could still use it – for the very last time.

She had to pass his door several times before she had the corridor to herself and the opportunity presented itself for her to get in unseen. She'd commed Engineering with some facile excuse of needing to find out where Trip was, and discovered that way that the repairs to the nacelle were still ongoing. Malcolm would almost certainly still be helping with them. The coast was clear.

She keyed in the code. The door hissed open on darkness and silence. Her remaining fears allayed, she stepped forward. She didn't need to put the lights on; it would be enough to drop the sock onto the desk, and go.

The attack came out of the dark, without a sound. Arms made of steel and whipcord wrapped around her, and a skilled twist took her off her feet, hurling her to the floor. She cried out as she fell, a sound that began in fear and ended in something quite different.

For a long moment there was silence.

They didn't put the light on. They hardly spoke, except for the language of their bodies, which were eloquent enough. At some point they must have moved on to the bunk, because when she found herself once more listening to the double beat of his heart, slowing now from its frantic pounding, there was a blanket wrapped around her. She always had found the temperature of his cabin slightly cooler than was comfortable, and he always covered her afterward so that she shouldn't feel the cold.

His fingers began combing slowly through her hair, infinitely careful not to pull when they found a tangle created by its wild tossing previously. She'd spared a second to free it from its restraint, knowing how erotic he found it to be enclosed by it when she leaned down and kissed him.

She was nestled in the curve of his left arm. The index finger of his left hand stroked her cheekbone lightly and tenderly, in the way that she only now realized how much she'd missed.

"I can't believe you're here." The English voice came at last out of the dark, very low. "I can't believe you came back."

"I can't believe it took me so long." _If I can find that sock, I'm going to frame it. _Nevertheless, she wasn't happy with the implicit lie. "The honest truth is, I didn't think you were here. I found that sock you lost in my quarters, and I was just bringing it back. I thought you'd still be helping Trip with the nacelle. He's still working on it – I checked."

"I went up there, but there wasn't anything for me to do. Lieutenant Hess thanked me for offering, but there were enough hands as it was. So I just came back to my cabin to catch an early night."

"You could have gone to Movie Night." She wrapped her arm possessively around him, thanking whomever it was appropriate to thank (not including Em Gomez) that he wasn't there now, cuddling Stephanie Flynn.

"Without you? No chance." She could hear the grin. "It's _Rosemary's Baby._ I'd need someone to hold my hand in the scary parts."

"I'm sure you could find someone else to go with."

"I probably could, but Travis makes such a fuss when I put my arm around him." His joke having elicited no more than a dutiful smile, he spoke more seriously. "Now, what's worrying you? You're not having second thoughts, are you? I've got a lot of explaining and apologizing to do, and a lot of making up as well. I hoped I'd made a start with that, but you don't sound exactly happy." The lightest of kisses brushed across her forehead. "I haven't been with anyone else, if that's what's worrying you."

"Not for want of Em trying." The accusation spilled out of her before she could think better of it. The betrayal still hurt, but she shouldn't cause a rift between the members of the Armory command structure. She could have bitten her tongue out.

"Em?" He was startled. "She kicked my arse halfway across the ship for being such an idiot, and she was right. Who was she supposedly trying to 'set me up' with?"

"Stephanie Flynn. Exobiology." She muttered the words into his chest, and didn't know whether to be relieved or exasperated when he started to laugh.

"You mean the Stephanie Flynn who's the driving spirit of the drama class Em goes to. Let me guess. You just happened to overhear a conversation somewhere when Em didn't realize you were there. Believe me, there wouldn't _ever_ be a situation when she wouldn't know exactly where everybody was. And everybody on the ship knows about your hearing."

"So she set _me_ up instead!" she said indignantly.

"It was probably safer than setting me up that way. One, I'd probably see through it because I know her so well, and two, if I didn't I have access to weapons."

It hadn't seemed possible to snuggle closer than she already was, but Hoshi achieved it somehow, feeling amazingly precious because it wasn't totally clear whether he was joking or not.

"I suppose I'll have to tell her tomorrow her nefarious schemes worked out." He couldn't stifle a yawn. "But next time you sneak into my quarters to ravish me, put the light on first. I'm the Security Officer, for God's sake." She felt the movement as he lifted his head to peer at her rather anxiously; his cabin had no windows, but the faint glow of the door control buttons provided a minimal amount of light, just enough to save the place from absolute darkness once the eyes had adapted to it. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"A few bruises. You'll just have to kiss them better."

"As long as they're in interesting places I don't mind. You do realize I'll have to give you a thorough examination to make absolutely sure I've found them all. Even the littlest ones."

"Oh, I'm counting on it."

The warmth and security of his chest. Oh, how she'd missed it. Against her cheek the beat of his heart went on, the heart that she'd accused him of not having. It wasn't only he who had apologies to make, but that could wait. Right now, the thing that mattered most was that they were back together again.

At last.

* * *

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	60. North Star

"Oh, hi, Trip, why don't you just lean on the doorbell! Is anything wrong?"

"Hi, Hosh'. Sorry 'bout the doorbell. Ah, have you by any chance seen that trigger-happy English sonofa... er, I'm just lookin' for Malcolm."

"I'm really sorry, Trip, I can't help you. I saw him in the Mess Hall a while ago..."

"Good thing _I _didn't see him in the Mess Hall. Might have put some people off their dinner, seein' what I'm plannin' on doin' to him." A hard exhalation. "Well, I guess I'd just better keep lookin'. 'Night, Hoshi."

"'Night, Trip."

"Gosh, I wonder if he knows he looks just like Frankenstein when he walks down the corridor like that."

A pause. Footsteps crossed the cabin.

"It's okay, Malcolm. You can come out of the wardrobe now."

* * *

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	61. Similiitude

"You should go down to Sickbay and talk to him," said Hoshi quietly.

Malcolm was sitting opposite her. His dark head was bent, studying the dinner for which he seemed to have lost his appetite. His fork stirred the mashed potatoes disconsolately. She couldn't see his eyes, or his expression.

"Hoshi, I ... I can't," he muttered at last.

"You should make the effort," she insisted. "This is _Trip_ we're talking about. Just a younger version of him. He's cute. And he asked me this morning why everyone except Malcolm had been down to see him."

"He said that?" Reed looked up quickly. Now she could see his expression, but she was hard put to define exactly what it was. Curiosity. Unease. And something else as well, darker than either.

"He knows a lot, Malcolm. He's been talking to the crew. Obviously your name would come up."

"Pity."

It occurred to Hoshi at that point that since Sim's 'birth,' the armory officer had hardly been seen outside his lair. He'd put in a couple of stints on the Bridge, but pleaded duties that took him away from it rather more often than usual. She'd noticed, too, that every time the turbo-lift door activated he glanced up with a slightly apprehensive look.

"He's your friend. Of course he'd ask about you," she told him, puzzled.

He didn't answer that, but looked down again at his plate and stirred the potato a little more. She leaned closer to him and went on, quietly, "Malcolm. He's going to be allowed to walk around the ship soon. We can't just keep him in Sickbay. And you can't avoid him forever."

"I know." The answer was almost inaudible.

"So don't you think the sooner you get it over and done with the better?"

"It's not that simple." He finally laid down the fork. He took a deep breath and looked up at her, troubled. "Trip Tucker is lying in a coma in Sickbay, Hoshi. The ... person ... you want to introduce me to is not Trip. He's a _symbiot._ He's not even human, not the way I understand it. And quite frankly, the whole damned business gives me the creeps." The plate skidded away across the table from the force of his push at it; fortunately it didn't go quite far enough to fall off the edge. "This ... symbiot ... _thing_ ... has a life span of fifteen days. So within that time we're going to go through the whole of Trip's 'existence', accelerated by multiples. We're going to watch him age, and then we're going to have to watch him _die_. And there won't be a damn thing any of us can do to stop it. I hope everyone else on board is looking forward to that, because I can tell you I'm bloody well not."

"Yes. I'd thought of that too. And I'm sure the captain has as well. But we're doing this for Trip – _our_ Trip. Because otherwise, the chances are he'll just lie there in Sickbay till he dies." She felt her eyes stinging with tears at the thought. "But we've done it now. We've got to go through with it. And as far as I'm concerned, the best way of coping with it is to, well, act like everything's normal. Just act like it _is _Trip. He deserves that, if nothing else."

"I'm not an actor. Not in situations like this."

"No. But you're a good man. And this has got to be really hard for Sim. Look at it from his point of view. He has this tiny life span, and the rest of us ... well, by comparison, the rest of us must seem practically immortal."

Malcolm grimaced. "Perhaps it's the reminder of my far-from-immortality that bothers me most, if I'm honest." He paused, and then went on in a low voice, "I went to see Trip, after the accident. Phlox says people in a coma can hear, sometimes. I sat there and talked to him, and I could find all sorts of things to say ... telling him about the repairs, and the armoury, and this, and that, God only knows what I was talking about by the end, reciting bloody poetry for all I know... Phlox finally threw me out and told me to go get some sleep. But the point is, I could _talk_ to Trip. This isn't Trip. What am I supposed to say?"

"I don't think you'll need to say anything," she said, smiling gently. "I guess being able to talk enough for four people all by himself must be in the genes. You'll be lucky if you can get a word in once he knows who you are."

"Hmm. That's a fair point." Sitting back in the chair, he sighed a little. "This means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

"I think it will to you too, when you see him. And ... afterwards."

"Yes. 'Afterwards.' When we have to tell Trip what we did. And if he wakes up soon enough, we're going to have to introduce him to Sim just in time for the last few days of Sim's life. Which is going to freak Trip out big-time, let alone the rest of us; I know it would me... This whole thing is going to take some getting over." He brooded a little longer, and then sighed again, more audibly. "All right. Just for you."

"No, Malcolm. For _Trip_. Because I know you're his friend, and you'll help him though it." They were in the Mess, and in open view of others; she couldn't reassure him with a caress, but after checking nobody was looking in their direction she tried to convey her feelings with a glimpse of the smile she reserved only for him.

He must have caught it, for his mouth softened imperceptibly, as it always did for her. Then he stood up. "If I'm going, I'd better go now, before I lose my nerve."

"You want company?"

"No, Ensign. Believe it or not, I can find my way to Sickbay on my own. God knows I've spent enough time there." Only a close observer would have detected the twinkle that took the sting from his words.

"I'll see you on the Bridge then, Lieutenant." Her voice was appropriately neutral.

His only response was a nod. She watched him exit the Mess, and reflected that there were some hard days coming for them all. And this was probably only the beginning of what the Expanse might demand in payment for success.

She shivered.

* * *

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	62. Carpenter Street

Waiting.

Just waiting, motionless and helpless, not knowing what was happening to the Captain and T'Pol wherever – _whenever _– they'd gone.

It had happened before of course, and that with a happy ending. The two had returned safely, though that hadn't had the added complication of 'time travel,' nor such high stakes resting on its success.

In the unlikely event that changing their location might somehow cause a problem with the wanderers' return (Trip, elevated to the captain's chair, was erring on the side of safety), the ship was now stationary in a Kuiper belt around a blue dwarf, trying to be inconspicuous. They didn't want to attract any attention while they waited.

There wasn't a lot to do. Travis at the helm was virtually asleep; every so often he ran a dutiful scan around the area, possibly in hope of finding that one small rock had collided with another, which was about the most exciting thing that was likely to happen around here. So far no thrilling impacts had occurred to disturb his somnolence, but he evidently possessed a particularly large fund of optimism.

Trip had endured the tedium of the hot seat for a while, but the boredom got to him eventually. He was even antsier than he'd been on the previous occasion, doubtless because of the redoubled weight of responsibility now resting on his shoulders. With a muttered 'Call me if anythin' happens,' he'd hopped out of the captain's chair and disappeared into the turbo-lift, doubtless on his way to Engineering, where there were always interesting things to do even when the ship was stationary and likely to remain so for a considerable time.

Malcolm was seated at Tactical just in case something bloody-minded dodged out from behind one of the boring small rocks and took a pot-shot at the ship. The presence of so many tempting targets for weapons practice when he was forbidden to so much as throw a tin can at one of them for fear of the noise it would make was clearly the equivalent of psychological torture to him. Every so often he would glance longingly at the viewscreen before dropping his gaze again, presumably to console himself by calculating trajectories and yields.

And talking about trajectories and yields….

Hoshi, watching him from the comm station, found herself thinking about the night before.

Strip chess. Now that was a new one.

Poker she could have handled. In actual fact she would probably have had Malcolm down to his skivvies in five minutes without losing so much as a shoe of her own. But chess was the game of a strategist.

The speed factor was probably something he hadn't encountered before, but she'd made it a condition of playing. It was a question whether he'd ever played a chess game in his life where the next move had to be made within thirty seconds. (They'd had to amend that to being 'within thirty seconds of an item of clothing hitting the floor,' because otherwise you were trying to think of a move while you were still stripping off, which was difficult.) She'd counted on him not being able to cope with that.

O-oh, that had _not_ been a good call.

She opened a link to the tactical station and sent him a picture of a chess piece. The knight. He'd taken her queen with his, leaving her king defenseless. By this time he'd lost his chronometer and his right boot, whereas she was down to her thong.

He didn't look up, but flicked a glance at her beneath his brows. And she darn well recognized a smirk when she saw one.

It had lent a whole new meaning to the phrase 'Check. And mate.'

* * *

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	63. Chosen Realm

_"Bastards!"_

That was the last she'd heard of him, that hiss of fury as she'd been hustled away along the corridor. It had been his reaction to the news, shouted to him by one of the Armory staff they encountered briefly, that the woman who'd been killed in the hull breach caused by the explosion on C Deck had been Marie LeSaut, a popular member of the original crew who'd pleased everybody by staying on board. The members of his team who'd been in the Armory were being herded up to be imprisoned in their quarters like everyone else. There had been resistance there, he was told as well, and there were consequently injuries.

She had seen the helpless rage flare in his face, blanching it still further. Even his eyes had seemed to grow paler, until they were the color of a winter sky before a blizzard.

_Oh, please don't do anything stupid, Malcolm,_ she'd groaned to herself as she was pushed along towards her quarters, which were on the other side of the saucer section to his. They'd bemoaned the distance that separated them often enough, but never with such terrible cause. _Don't give them a reason to kill you too. I couldn't bear it if you died like Marie._

The lock was activated behind her as she was shoved roughly into her cabin. The sound of it brought all her horror of enclosed spaces rushing over her. She had to stand quite still and breathe slowly and steadily for a good two minutes before she could bring her fear under control.

Memories of Marie LeSaut rushed through her mind. A born organizer, never happier than when she was helping plan out the logistics of the voyage or getting a party set up. She'd loved Christmas in particular. It was her job to decorate the Mess, and she'd always done a wonderful job of it, even if Trip complained that finding out why the Christmas tree lights didn't work wasn't what he'd signed on for, and Malcolm groused that the tinsel was a fire hazard. She was half the size of either of them and she'd bossed them around unmercifully, like a Chihuahua bullying a Labrador and a Doberman Pinscher at the same time. They put up with it, too, exchanging only a few resigned glances and one or two grumbles, because they liked her. Everyone did.

Christmas this year would have a few hollow feelings around it, for more than one member of the crew.

But first, they had to get there in one piece. And that meant fighting back. Grieving would have to wait for just a while; Marie certainly wouldn't want them to sit back and do nothing, stupefied by her loss. It took no effort at all to imagine what she'd be shouting already, if she were here: _Merde, qu'est-ce que tu attends?_

The crawl-way. She'd done it before, she could do it again. All that way, wriggling through the guts of the ship, with her claustrophobia trying to overwhelm her reason and dissolve her into a helpless morass of panic, fighting for freedom and air; but it would be worth it, if only she could reach him. And perhaps once again they could make use of that unsuspected access route to plan some kind of fight-back. He might even be thinking along these very same lines already, might be hoping she would remember and take the initiative.

She leaned against the wall beside the comm panel. Trip had activated it last time, had been the moving spirit behind their escape, but it didn't take clairvoyance to determine that their captors would want the Chief Engineer kept at his post, She didn't know what their intentions were, but given the disparity between their own small, damaged ship and the far larger and more powerful vessel they were currently occupying, it was beyond the realms of belief that that they'd just take what they wanted and go.

_Malcolm, I don't know what you'd want me to do._ If she tried it and was caught, she could complicate the situation to an unknown degree – her transgression might cost the life of a hostage, or perhaps more than one. And she might actually not be able to achieve anything, even if she reached him. Company in their mutual fear would theoretically be comforting, but she knew enough of his temper to realize that being cooped up in a cabin with him while the ship was occupied and he was helpless to do anything about it would bear a signal resemblance to being caged up with a bear suffering a migraine. She loved the man, but there are times when any sensible woman knows to keep her distance.

Still, her more resolute self argued, having her there would at least give him the opportunity of getting some kind of organizing going. He could send her around the ship with instructions (_oh, crap, even more __crawl-ways_) and you never knew, somehow they might get some kind of resistance moving. At any rate, she'd be doing something, as opposed to just sitting here meekly awaiting developments. Her trust in Captain Archer's will to retake control was absolute, but that didn't mean the crew couldn't take the initiative and try a few tricks in the background. You never knew, a little sabotage here and a little disruption there might give him just the opening he needed to make his move.

She heaved a shuddering sigh, and turned away towards the grating above her desk. Somehow she'd just known it was going to come to this. Now all she had to do was remember the layout of all of E deck. Last time she'd had Trip's instructions to guide her. This time she was going to have to do it all on her own, from memory. Even if she got it right the first time, it would feel a hell of a lot longer when she was wriggling on her belly than it did when she was walking on her own two legs. Oh, and she'd keep an eye out for the catch when she was leaving it this time. It wasn't that he'd see anything he hadn't seen before, but a girl has to preserve something of the mystique; grubby, sweaty and topless are not a good combination, though he'd admitted some while ago that he certainly hadn't minded it the first time.

_Attagirl. You can wriggle on _my_ belly for as long as you like, after we've got this sorted. _She giggled. She could almost hear the English voice saying it, encouraging her into action. "Okay, Malcolm, I'll hold you to that," she said aloud, startling herself by the sound of her voice in the silence. "But you'd sure as hell better make this worth my while!"

She climbed nimbly on to the top of the desk and reached for the vent cover catches.

_Here we go again._

* * *

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	64. Proving Ground

"I've had guest quarters allocated to you for tonight. Though I don't know whether you'd prefer to return to the _Kumari."_

Talas lifted her head and stared at the human armory officer with whom she had been working on the repairs to _Enterprise_ all day. It was true that she would have to return the next day to complete the task; there had been a great deal of damage. But although they had worked amicably enough together after their original spat of mutual ill-will, and she'd been reluctantly impressed by his skill and commitment, she hadn't expected him to be this hospitable.

"I'd be honoured," she replied. "If you in your turn would eat with me aboard the _Kumari._"

He raised his eyebrows. "It seems like a fair exchange. I accept."

They'd had little time or leisure in which to talk; this would give them an opportunity. They both knew where the lines were drawn when it came to divulging classified technical information, but short of that there was a vast area of shared interests from which they could derive pleasure. She hadn't had much interaction with humans before, though she knew that her commander thought highly of the particular pinkskin who occupied the captain's chair of this particular ship. She was beginning to share his opinion of the officer whom Archer had appointed to run his armory too.

A pity, that their nascent sense of fellowship was about to be sundered so soon. Still – while it lasted, it would be pleasurable.

* * *

"I'm glad you enjoyed your meal."

It was late when the two of them returned to _Enterprise._ They had eaten – Reed with surprising aplomb, given that he'd probably never encountered Andorian cuisine before – and then sat in the _Kumari'_s relaxation area, indulging in the satisfying, allusive, technical talk of two specialists sharing a kindred spirit. For a pinkskin, he was surprisingly good company. She'd heard that many pinkskins were arrogant and ill-mannered, but Lieutenant Reed was polite and occasionally even quite charming; when it came, his rare smile was winning. Now and again she even found herself sharing Commander Shran's discomfort at the trick that was to be played on their unsuspecting 'allies' when the time came. Still, that was war – and the balance between Vulcan and Andoria was currently on far too fine a knife-edge to allow them to be too picky when the opportunity presented itself to snatch a weapon that would give them such an unimaginable advantage.

"I enjoyed the company too." The slight blush suggested that the lieutenant was somewhat unused to offering compliments. She smiled and accepted this one with a nod. It _had_ been pleasant – and not just because of the stimulating conversation.

The two of them turned down the corridor towards the guest apartments. It was deserted; there were no other guests on board.

"This is yours. I hope it's suitable. If you need anything, just comm me." He activated the door control.

She stepped inside, and he came with her, casting a glance around to make sure that everything was in good order. She had anticipated this. Evidently he had not expected her reaction, because she was able to catch hold of him and pin him against the wall with surprising ease.

As she had suspected, his body was hard and muscular. And he returned her kiss with unmistakable passion for a split second, responding to the attraction that had smouldered between them almost since they'd met. He _had_ felt it, just as she had; it had been one of the reasons for his initial attempts to keep her at a safe distance. She had understood that perfectly well. Now it was time to explore what else than technical ability with weapons systems lurked beneath that coverall; and as his hands automatically came up to grasp her body, it was plain that he harboured the same intentions with regard to hers.

But the hard grasp did not draw her closer. It pushed her away.

"No." He wasn't blushing now; he'd gone rather pale, but his eyes were resolute. "I'm sorry. No."

"You're not in a relationship." She'd found that out via the ship's database.

"That's not ... that's not the point." His hands were now clenched into fists at his sides, as though he feared that was the only way to keep them under control.

"You want me," she said baldly. "Are you trying to say you don't?"

He swallowed. "Any man with eyes would want you. But I ... there's somebody else."

Her eyes narrowed. "Somebody on this ship?"

"That's classified." From somewhere he salvaged a glimmer of a smile.

She absorbed this information. Her gaze took in the unmistakable faint tinge of regret in his gaze. He was aware what an opportunity he was passing up for some absurd pinkskin scruple.

"No-one would know," she whispered, leaning into him and running her hand up his thigh.

_"I _would know," he answered. His body did not react. "I'm sorry, Talas. I appreciate the offer, I really do. But I can't accept."

She stepped back. "'Somebody else' is a lucky woman. Or man."

His gaze gave nothing away. "Not as lucky as I am."

"Then you deserve one another."

She activated the door control. There was no point in prolonging the meeting; he would not reconsider.

"Sleep well, Lieutenant. I'll see you again in the morning."

"I hope tomorrow will be as successful as today was." He lingered for a moment longer, holding her eyes steadily, without apology. "We're lucky to have you as allies. I know the captain's grateful for your help, and I am too."

_You may think differently when this is over._ When the plan had been explained to her, she'd felt nothing but jubilation at the thought of 'putting one over' on the pinkskins, for whom she felt little more than contempt. Now, for the first time, she felt a distinct prick of shame. It wouldn't stop her from carrying out her orders. But she was beginning to understand all too well why Commander Shran was so obviously and bitterly divided between his duty to obey orders and his sense of honor to an upright man who trusted him.

If all went according to plan, they would have helped the pinkskins by stealing the weapon. That, at least, was a side effect – though the main idea was that they would now have it themselves. Captain Archer wanted it in order to first study and then destroy it. Shran was under orders not to allow that to happen, and that was the reason she was 'helping out' in the Armory. Tomorrow she would commit sabotage, inflict serious damage on the equipment that was the sole charge of this faithful and honorable man in front of her, so that _Enterprise_ would be blind when it needed to set out in pursuit. He would not be grateful for her help then. Perhaps it was as well that he'd refused her. The discovery of her perfidy would only make the memories bitter.

She watched him move to the door. "Goodnight, Lieutenant."

"Goodnight." The door hissed shut. The faint sound of his footsteps faded into the distance of the corridor.

Duty had never before worn so grim a face.

* * *

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	65. Stratagem

"That's him. That's the sonofabitch who designed the weapon." Trip stared red-eyed into the depths of the glass of bourbon. "I oughta go down there and just kill him now. With my bare hands."

"I don't think that would be a good idea, Trip." Malcolm spoke gently, after a moment. They were off duty, so he used the nickname. Besides, it was clear at a glance that this wasn't an occasion for formalities.

The two of them were in the Commander's cabin, and it was long past the time when ordinarily both of them would be in their respective beds. But a call to his comm unit had summoned the Tactical Officer to his immediate superior's quarters, and he'd slipped on some leisure clothes and gone at once, wondering what the request betokened.

He soon found out.

Trip was hitting the bottle – hard.

"Of all the goddamned Xindi we could've found, it had to be him," the other man slurred. "Seems like fate, don'cha think? The bastard who designed the weapon. The bastard who killed Lizzie."

Reed said nothing. From the point of view of the mission, it had been a stroke of enormous good fortune. On a personal basis – at least as far as Trip was concerned – it could hardly have been worse. Up till now, the grieving, embittered Chief Engineer had lacked a specific focus for his hatred; the Xindi had been more of a concept to him than anything else, though he'd paid close and venomous attention to the Reptilian corpses they'd brought aboard from the venture into the past. Now, however, his mortal enemy had acquired a face. And was aboard _his_ ship, in _his _territory. It was fortunate indeed that this Degra was under Captain Archer's formidable protection.

"I haven't had a chance to talk to him yet," Trip continued, filling a second glass and waving it vaguely in his guest's direction. "Got a few things I'd like to tell him when our li'l _charade_'s over and done with. 'Bout the seven million people he killed."

"He probably knows some of it already," said the lieutenant gently, accepting the glass.

"He doesn't know _any_ of it!" Tucker lurched to his feet and started shouting. "He doesn't know ... 'bout Lizzie! An' all the rest of 'em in the neighbourhood! Good people, known 'em all my life, what did any of 'em do to _him? _You tell me that!"

"I don't suppose he thinks of them as people. War doesn't work like that, Trip." He looked steadily into the bloodshot blue eyes, sustaining their famished stare.

"SHE WAS MY SISTER!" yelled Trip. Suddenly, tears were welling up. "An' that sonofabitch killed her, an' I just have to sit an' watch him walkin' round inside that shuttle six feet away from me when all I wanna do is go in there and blow his brains out!"

"I can't begin to imagine how difficult it must be."

"'_Difficult'!" _The glass hurtled across the cabin and burst into a million pieces against the wall. "You're goddamn right it's 'difficult'! Lizzie and I were ... she was just special, right? One of those people who just makes a room light up when she walks into it. And she was bright, and she was gorgeous, and she was just gettin' her business goin' so well, she was so excited she couldn't wait to tell me when I got home, she sent me these letters, an' I've got them all saved up 'cause it was just like havin' her in the room with me when I was readin' 'em..." He sat down abruptly and uttered a harsh, heart-rending sob. "And now it's over, it's all over. She's dead. They're all dead. An' all 'cause of that sonofabitch down in Cargo Bay 2!"

Malcolm sighed. He could empathise all too easily with his friend's frustrated fury, if not with the depths of his grief and despair. He'd never had anyone he cared about as Trip had cared for Lizzie. Times had been when he'd actually envied him having a relationship like that, but not since the day the news of the attack had come. The problem with having someone you cared about was that it meant you had someone to lose.

Yes. And that was his problem too now. He had someone who was bright, and gorgeous, and who lit up a room when she walked into it. And she wasn't his sister, which lent even more depth to the passionate caring she engendered in him. First he'd tried not to acknowledge the attraction, then he'd tried not to act on it, and then he'd tried not to admit even to himself that he was in way over his depth. Even when they'd become lovers he'd tried to convince himself that it was just lust, and that familiarity would eventually cure him of his desire for her. It was having the opposite effect. She was becoming necessary to his existence in a way no other woman had ever done.

When he'd joined _Enterprise_ he'd had no-one to care for and nothing to lose. Slowly he'd learned how to believe that he belonged, that he was wanted and appreciated and part of the family. The discovery had broken down his painstakingly constructed defences, and Hoshi Sato had stormed the fallen walls to assault the keep within.

He'd never have believed that anyone could open him up like she had; could make him vulnerable, make him care. Make him feel as though when they weren't with him his world was only half complete.

Make him feel as though he were in love.

If it wasn't for Hoshi he could never have done what he did next. Though even now it cost him a rending moment of fear at the gulf he was stepping across.

He set down his glass, closed the remaining distance between himself and Trip, pulled the chief engineer to his feet and hugged him. "Oh, mate, it must be shit for you," he said simply. "Come on. Just let it out."

Hate had saved Tucker from feeling the full, atrocious depth of his loss. Now, for just a moment, the hate finally failed him, and he was left with nothing but the pain.

The pressure of his arms in return was so great that Malcolm's ribs would ache for days. Trip rested his forehead on the armoury officer's braced shoulder and cried, for his sister and his home town and probably for a few other things that had been crushing him into the ground, and on which it wasn't even a friend's province to trespass uninvited. Learning how to love another person had given Reed an awareness he hadn't had before of people in the same situation, and he'd seen with new, troubled eyes that Trip's feelings for T'Pol were no longer in the category of something he could cope with. And that particular situation was only going to get worse.

The storm spent itself, as such storms always do. Malcolm knew instantly when recognition hit that, well, this situation wasn't really ... appropriate any longer. He released the other man immediately, though he patted him firmly on the shoulder as he did so, just to say everything between _them _was okay, at least.

"Give your face a swill, it'll make you feel better." There were things that had to be done to preserve a man's dignity on these occasions, and _looking_ wasn't one of them. The lieutenant picked up his glass again, drank what was left in it in a single swallow that almost made him gag, and feigned extreme interest in the contents of one of the PADDs that littered the desk.

He listened to Trip walk slowly to the bathroom and shut the door. The muffled sounds of splashing indicated that he was taking the advice.

_You poor sod. You just had to fall in love with the one woman on the ship who wouldn't trade her weight in latinum for a kiss off you. A Vulcan, for God's sake. Trip Tucker, you really do believe in doing it the hard way._

The thought merely reinforced his own good fortune in that respect. He had no idea how or why it had happened, but a gorgeous woman actually wanted him. And how! Sometimes he was scared witless by the strength of the connection between them.

No such luck for Trip. No wonder he was channelling all of his energies into the quest for revenge for Lizzie; it was the only passion left open to him. As far as romance went, T'Pol was as beautiful and as cold as the moon, and about as unobtainable.

Malcolm shivered. When he was through here, he'd go to Hoshi's cabin, and if the coast was clear he'd let himself in. They hadn't made any arrangements, but suddenly he wanted to hold her, to reassure himself that he was the lucky one for once. She wouldn't mind. Even if they did no more than cuddle for a few minutes, that was more than poor Trip was ever likely to get.

The bathroom door opened again. Tucker had taken off his shirt and draped a towel around his shoulders; his blond hair stood in spikes where he'd dashed water over it. His face bore the marks of his emotional battering, but there was a kind of weary peace in it. Not that that was likely to last – not with Degra still aboard the ship and continuing to draw breath – but it was an improvement from the tension that had strung him as taut as cheese-wire from the moment the Xindi had been brought on to _Enterprise. _At least it seemed likely that he'd be able to snatch some kind of rest tonight, if only for a couple of hours.

Reed opened his mouth to ask if the other man was okay, and shut it again. Of course he wasn't, and of course he would say that he was, because that's what you do say in these situations, and for the sake of comfort both of them would pretend it was true.

He wasn't going to play that game. Not today.

"If you need me, mate, you know where my cabin is." Another day he'd have said, _Just don't walk in without knocking, will you_, and they could have made a joke of it, because Trip knew the score of course, but today he couldn't say that because it would have made it all even more unbearable than it already was.

Trip nodded. "'Preciate it, Malcolm. And ... thanks."

"My pleasure." He returned the nod. "Anyway, I only came for the bourbon."

"Bastard." The smile was a tad effortful, but it was genuine. "Get your ass out of here so I can get to bed."

"Don't worry, I'm off. And before you ask, I'm not tucking you in before I go."

"You're mistakin' me for someone who wouldn't have nightmares if you did."

The lieutenant smiled painfully as he thumbed the door control. Things weren't all right; they were far from anything like all right, but somehow Trip would hold on.

And right now, that was the most that anyone could ask of any of them.

* * *

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	66. Harbinger

Hoshi blinked in incredulous dismay at the disheveled and bloodied Tactical Officer who stood outside her door.

_Oh, my God, it's finally happened._

It had been only a matter of time, after all. The staff in Engineering had started a pool on how long it would be before it happened, and her bet had been for three days ago. Malcolm and his damned British self-control. He'd lost her a fortune. Still, she'd let him make it up to her. Eventually. And over a protracted number of nights.

"I hope Major Hayes looks worse," she said at last.

"I wish the captain had been that sympathetic," he commented wearily.

"Ah. You've been to the Bridge." It wasn't a question.

The portions of his facial anatomy that weren't starting to discolor with bruising flushed slightly.

"I had to report on the situation. Trip had to go to Sickbay and Hayes had to debrief with the MACOs."

"So you were the sacrificial victim." She crossed her arms and tried vainly not to grin. "And I guess the captain wasn't pleased."

"To put it mildly. We get the official carpet parade first thing tomorrow morning." Reed grimaced.

"So who gets the winner's medal?"

"I think we came out about equal, in all honesty. He's bloody good. Better than I expected, to be honest. If I hadn't had a few tricks up my sleeve I think he'd have wiped the floor with me." He took a handkerchief out of one of his pockets and dabbed gingerly with it at his badly split lip.

"I hope you're not expecting me to kiss it better," she said in her severest voice.

"Well. Something like that. I ache practically everywhere." Malcolm peered at her hopefully. Unfortunately his rapidly darkening left eye did not, as he evidently thought, enhance his masculine charms.

"Well, you know what the cure for aching all over is? A long hot shower and a nice long sleep. _Alone._" She pushed him out of the doorway and pressed the door control button. The steel panel hissed shut across his indignant consternation, and she laughed.

'Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen.'

And she liked Malcolm _keen._

* * *

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	67. Doctor's Orders

"Now, you're absolutely sure you understand the procedure?"

"You've explained it six or seven times, Lieutenant. It doesn't seem all that complicated. And besides, we've already decided that the ship won't be going to warp." Phlox tried not to sound waspish.

"You're absolutely sure there's nothing you can give me to withstand this radiation? I just ..."

"Lieutenant! I have had variations on this theme from every member of the bridge staff already, and I've only just starting putting the crew to sleep!" Time was running out if they were all to be safely comatose before the ship entered the anomaly, and he knew from bitter experience that his most contentious patient could, if necessary, dredge up new arguments for avoiding medical procedures almost _ad infinitum_. "The captain has already agreed that this is the only way for making this journey safely. I have been briefed on everything I may possibly need to do while you are all safely asleep. Kindly allow me to do my job."

A rebellious gray glare indicated a certain amount of disinclination to do so, but Reed lay back on his bunk and submitted.

"Please make yourself comfortable. You'll be asleep for four days, remember."

"It's going to be one hell of a rush for the bathroom when I wake up."

"If you don't be quiet and let me do what I have to do, I'll leave you till last to revive."

Evidently cowed into submission by this threat, the patient stretched out on his back and relaxed. Or, to be more precise, lay still, as tense as a strung bow, waiting for oblivion. Unlike most of the crew whom the doctor had already treated, he did not look as though he was looking forward to the rest. He could hardly have appeared less resigned if he'd been about to be euthanized. He gave the hypospray a last look of loathing as it passed out of his field of vision.

The little machine delivered its payload painlessly and efficiently into the bare neck. The sedative was very powerful and very quick-acting. The dark lashes fluttered shut. He would not have felt the soft tap of the monitor being placed on his forehead; a quick glance at the scanner showed that the brain activity in the neocortex was shutting down just as it should.

The speed of the sedation would allow almost no time for the brain to experience REM sleep. It would be unsafe to allow any of the sleepers to enter a normal sleep state until they were back in normal space; even in dreams the neocortex could become stimulated and therefore vulnerable. Like everyone else on the ship, Malcolm Reed would lie immobile and dreamless for the next four days, in a state close to hibernation.

But in the second it took for his brain to plunge from awareness to oblivion, some fragment of dream must have touched him. He rolled on to his side and threw out an arm as though wrapping it around someone beside him. His head tilted forward just a fraction.

The four words were all but inaudible, slurring off into nothing. Nevertheless Phlox caught them.

_"I love you, Hoshi."_

* * *

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	68. Hatchery

Hoshi stirred and turned over. She'd been drowsing, wrapped in a warm post-coital haze of satisfaction, but she'd become aware that the body beside her was not slipping into the usual slumber.

Usually their sexual encounters gave Malcolm the same release as they did her, but tonight that obviously hadn't happened. Although he was lying supine and the slowing rise and fall of his chest testified to his physical satiation, she could see even in the dim light that he was wide awake. His eyes were fixed on the bulkhead above his bunk, and his free arm was thrown up around and above his head in a way that suggested sleep was far from his mind.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing, sweetheart." He planted an absent kiss on her forehead. "Go to sleep."

"Malcolm Reed, you make a rotten liar." She propped herself up on one elbow and studied him as closely as the poor visibility would allow. "Now tell me what's really going on in that mind of yours. I've known something's up with you since you came back from that Insectoid ship down there."

If it was something to do with security that he couldn't share with her, he'd tell her so. But she knew it wasn't. She was becoming attuned to the way that his inner moods subtly affected his lovemaking; usually he was tender, even diffident, but tonight he'd been a little more forceful than she'd known him before, a little more demanding. It had certainly been exciting, but she'd known that something was simmering away behind it.

"I'm sorry," he said contritely, kissing her again, this time with more attention. "I hoped I ... well, I hoped you wouldn't be able to tell."

"After all this time, you think I don't read you pretty well?" One finger traced the outline of his mouth, and he kissed that too. "And you came back in the shuttle with Major Hayes."

Instantly he stiffened. _Bingo_, she thought. It hardly needed more than the mention of the MACO major's name to send her lover into a rage; jealously possessive of his position on the ship, and more than half convinced the captain was weighing up Hayes as his replacement, Malcolm was obsessively suspicious of every word the major uttered.

The two of them had already engaged in one bout of brawling that had put both of them on the carpet in front of the captain. It had resulted in an uneasy truce, but apparently this hadn't lasted. Realistically, it had never been likely to.

"He's at it _again_." The words emerged as a snarl, as though bursting out under pressure. "Trying to circumvent my authority, trying to turn us all into bloody MACOs. Now he wants to cancel Movie Night and set up another training session for the senior officers instead! He has no idea what it's like being out here as long as we've been. And when I don't agree, _'I don't think that's how the Captain would see it'!" _He drawled the words out in a horribly accurate imitation of Hayes' accent. "He has no fucking idea. He's just a jumped-up oaf straight out of West Point who thinks he knows everything. And the captain seems to buy every damned thing he's selling!"

Hoshi opened her mouth to argue and closed it again. She would have to choose her words with the utmost care with Malcolm in this mood. Normally he was careful not to use bad language in front of her; that he had so far forgotten himself as to swear told her a great deal about his emotional state.

"I'm sure Captain Archer appreciates everything you've done for the ship," she said gently. "If it wasn't for you we wouldn't be here. I don't believe for a moment that he'd even think of replacing you, even if the major wanted your job." _Which I'm fairly sure he doesn't,_ she added to herself silently.

"Oh, certainly. That's why he brought the MACOs on board. Because my team weren't good enough!" The pent-up bitterness was fairly exploding out of him now. "Conceited wankers, strutting round the ship in their bloody camos like they own the place! And Hayes is the worst of the lot!"

This certainly wasn't the time to mention that she'd made it her business to befriend many of the MACOs and found them charming and polite without exception. They were a credit to their unit and to their leader, and she was sure the captain had meant them to complement the ship's security team rather than replace them. As for Major Hayes himself, he was stiffly professional but perfectly courteous in an old-fashioned sort of way. Very much like the public edition of Malcolm himself, as a matter of fact. This wasn't a good time to mention that either. To say it wouldn't go down well was probably the understatement of the century.

"Amanda Cole seems to have been good for Commander Tucker," she said slyly. "If the scuttlebutt's anything to go by."

That got her a sharp look.

"He assured me it was just neuropressure. Nothing intimate was involved at all, more's the pity." A huff of a laugh. "I think it'd take more than Corporal Cole has in her armoury to do Trip any good."

"I think you need a little neuropressure yourself. If you spend all night whipping yourself into a rage over Major Hayes you'll be asleep at your post tomorrow. Turn over and I'll give your shoulders a rub."

Evidently nothing loath, he rolled over to lie on his stomach. She sat up and put her hands on his deltoid muscles. They were practically knotted with tension even now. "Gosh, you're stiff!"

"Give me another twenty minutes and you never know your luck." He grinned at his own joke, and then groaned as her fingers began kneading hard into his flesh. "Ow. Oh, God. You have three days to stop that."

"If you don't stop fretting so much you're going to give yourself an ulcer."

"Tell that to Major Pain-in-the-Arse. Though he'd probably be pleased if I did. It'd make his takeover bid that much easier."

"Malcolm. You have to sort this out. _Talk _to him. I'm sure he wants a good working relationship as much as you do."

"What he _wants_ is my job," he growled. "He just can't stand a lowly lieutenant giving him orders. He'll do anything to undermine my authority." He raised his head and gave her a dark look. "One of these days he'll push his luck a step too far, Hoshi. And then we'll see."

A shiver of apprehension went through her. She was beginning to feel that was inevitable too. The tension between the two men was not, as it had been once, producing the charged and breathless hush that precedes a storm; that had discharged itself in their violent clash in the gym. It had been replaced by a steady, hostile, niggling war of attrition that was slowly and inevitably ratcheting up the ill will between them again. And another such clash would be the worst possible outcome in the circumstances, where everyone on the ship should be concentrating fully on their mission. She could only imagine what Captain Archer would find to say about a second episode. One, if not both, of the combatants would be quite likely to see the inside of the brig.

"Hey. Don't let's think about him here." Hastily she pushed the thought away, as though she could push away the fact along with it. "I've got much better things for you to think about."

He glanced back over his shoulder. "Seeing you like that, I'm thinking about them already." With a swift, skilled twist he pulled her down beside him again. "Now, let's talk about improving on that twenty minute forecast I mentioned."

She gave herself up to his newly hungry caresses, but there was still anger behind them. She could feel it. And nothing she could do or say would stop it.

The reckoning was only a matter of time.

* * *

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	69. Azati Prime

The silence on the Bridge was thicker than treacle.

Motionless at the Tactical Station, watching the sensors that stubbornly refused to indicate any sign of an explosion at the planet's surface, Malcolm Reed glanced from time to time at the closed door to the captain's Ready Room.

He'd already accepted, as far as it was possible for him to accept, that Jonathan Archer had gone and would not return. All that was left now was the detonation that told the waiting crew his death hadn't been for nothing. It should have happened over an hour ago. The tension had mounted as they counted down the minutes to his arrival; he knew where the weapon was – Travis had given him the precise co-ordinates. The interference created by the detection grid had meant that the ship's sensors had lost track of the borrowed craft, just as they had done on the first trip, so they had no way of knowing exactly when it reached its destination, but it had to be about twenty minutes or so after launch. At twenty minutes precisely you could have heard a pin drop on _Enterprise._ Reed had watched the sensors with held breath and straining eyes, unwilling to blink in case he missed the first microsecond of the incoming information.

Five minutes later he was still waiting.

Five minutes lengthened into ten. Into fifteen. Into another twenty. Thirty. Forty-five. An hour. Still the sensors remained mute and the Ready Room door remained closed. And the captain's chair in front of him remained without a tenant.

The signals on the console told him that the readouts were being channelled to every other display on the ship that could receive them. Everywhere people were waiting, watching and praying. And beginning to wonder what was taking so long.

He lifted his eyes. Across the Bridge, Hoshi was at the science console. She was monitoring the sensors there. She didn't look up, but her face was drawn with the fear that was beginning to gnaw at his own heart.

If the captain's ship had been fired on and exploded, they'd have detected the traces of even that small a blast. The time was well past when he should have reached the weapon; no amount of last-minute difficulty would account for a delay of this magnitude. Therefore, every moment increased the probability that he'd been captured and was now a prisoner of the Xindi, complete with the stolen vessel bearing its deadly cargo. They could hardly want more incriminating evidence of humanity's murderous intentions.

Trip was in Engineering. He was doubtless watching the sensor display on his own account. His friendship with Jonathan Archer went back far beyond _Enterprise_'s creation; it had hardly been a matter for surprise that he should feel unable to watch the end from the bridge. When the explosion came, he would want privacy in which to mourn as well as rejoice. The events in the Expanse might have stretched the friendship at times almost to breaking point, but Tucker doubtless had far too many memories even now of what they'd had before the Cogenitor crossed their path and the shadow of the Xindi probe fell across Earth. Maybe in a very real sense the man with whom he'd been fast friends no longer existed, but the end of what was left of him still had to be a grievous loss. Malcolm, already braced for his own grief, could only imagine what Trip was going through.

Another hour crept past. The silence had grown denser, heavier. And all of that time it had been slowly filling up with dread, until it was hard to breathe without feeling the effort catch at the lungs.

A movement drew his attention. Hoshi had finally looked up, but not at him. She had glanced at the closed door of the Ready Room, and the worried little frown that creased her forehead tipped him into action. He could have endured his own fear, but not hers. Hers must be allayed, at whatever cost to himself.

He stood up and walked towards the turbo-lift, pausing for just a second beside her. "Comm me immediately if anything happens," he told her in a low voice. He wanted to touch her hand for mutual comfort, even for an instant, but others were looking, drawn to any small incident in that tense, waiting silence.

"Yes, sir." It didn't need any elaborating what 'anything' meant. The silence followed him into the turbo-lift, and occupied it with him. It was still present, filling the corridors like invisible cotton wool, as he walked the short distance to Engineering.

The door hissed open. Trip was standing immobile, his gaze fixed on one of the monitors. At the sudden, unexpected sound, he literally jumped.

"Malcolm?" he gasped. "Has – is somethin' wrong?"

"May I have a word, Commander?" There were other crew present and within earshot. Protocol still applied. He kept his voice absolutely devoid of inflection.

"Sure."

The two of them went into the corridor.

"I don't suppose you know what the situation on the Bridge is at the moment, sir." He paused, wondering how to explain it tactfully, but Trip knew him very well and would pick up intuitively what he didn't say. "I think it would be – helpful to the crew if the captain was with us." _The new captain, that is. _He didn't say that aloud, because the thought was too horrible and too painful to be put into words, but Trip would understand that was what he meant.

The blue eyes stared at him incredulously. "She hasn't come out of the Ready Room yet?"

Malcolm shifted a little uncomfortably. This was too like tale-bearing for his liking, but he felt that something had to be done. And if anyone could get through to T'Pol, it was Trip, who was now by default her second-in-command until or unless she appointed another.

"Not by the time I left."

His meaning couldn't be clearer. In this situation of fear and uncertainty, the captain had a duty to be visible, to provide a focus for his crew, to give reassurance and inspiration. To simply disappear, without any explanation to anybody, was the worst possible reaction by the commanding officer of the ship. If Captain Archer's suicide mission had failed, then options had to be discussed and a new course of action decided on without delay. Trip knew that as well he did, and T'Pol should have known it too. Her unaccountable failure to pick up the mantle of leadership which had fallen onto her shoulders could be utterly disastrous for the ship; uncertainty could too easily turn into panic, and panic was contagious, would spread like fire in dry woodland. As long as they had someone to lead them, the crew would cope. Even if they were led into hell, they would follow.

A number of emotions crossed Tucker's all-too-expressive features. At a guess, the last thing he wanted to do was to start a fire-fight with his commanding officer, but somebody had to remind her of her plain duty.

"Okay. I'll have a word."

They both walked back towards the lift. The silence went with them. It endured as they returned to the Bridge, and was not even dented by the anxious glance that met them or by the little shake of the head that said there was no news.

Malcolm walked back to the Tactical Station. Trip walked toward the Ready Room. It was noticeable that he braced his shoulders before he hit the chime button asking for admittance, and that there was a pause before permission was given for him to enter.

The door closed behind him.

And everyone went back to the waiting.

* * *

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	70. Damage

Is there anything worse than watching the person you love die in front of you?

He gave no sign.

Externally he was the same as he had always been – quiet, composed, professional. There was no hesitation in the skilled, precise movements of his fingers on the control board. As he reported the success of his attack his voice was measured, betraying nothing of either triumph or distaste. He remained motionless at his post during the boarding, listening intently for any mishap, ready in an instant to despatch reinforcements or do whatever else might be necessary to immobilise the ship's prey as they pounced on it like some deadly duranium spider.

He had injected the paralysing venom. Others would finish the job he'd started, taking by force what they'd been denied for the asking. After they'd finished with her, their victims would be left alive, crippled but alive, abandoned to make their way home as best they could. They might make it safely, or become the victims of some other pirate as ruthless as the captain of the _Enterprise_ but with even fewer scruples; the Expanse was an ideal hiding place for such scum. The chances were that nobody would ever know.

Hoshi sat silent. The comm link in her ear told her nothing of what was happening on the Illyrian ship, though she could guess all too clearly. For once, her attention wasn't fixed on what her ears were telling her, but on what her eyes were. Though even these were liars and traitors, because they would not have told her, unless she had known it already, that across the Bridge from her Lieutenant Malcolm Reed was slowly dying of shame.

* * *

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	71. The Forgotten

**SYSTEM FAILURE**.

The warning glowed from the display on the Situation Room wall, its brilliance impossible to ignore. And the deck plating underfoot shuddered gently, on a frequency quite different from the subtle vibrations of the warp engine to which she'd grown so accustomed that she no longer felt them at all.

Hoshi bit her lip, and tried to fix her concentration on the displays on the consoles in front of her. The fire on the hull had to be brought under control quickly, before it spread, and the only way to achieve it was for two men to go outside and manually seal off the leak that was venting warp plasma perilously close to the reactor.

And one of them, naturally, had to be Malcolm. Volunteering as always for the dangerous jobs. Wouldn't he ever get over that suicidal streak that made him step forward every time? Sometimes he reminded her all too vividly of a small boy teasing a scorpion, playing a deadly game to prove to himself he was quicker than the sting.

Perhaps one of these days the scorpion would prove him wrong.

Perhaps today would be the day...

_If you survive, I'm going to kill you myself. _

They weren't outside yet. She didn't have to start worrying for another couple of minutes. With a conscious effort she made herself look around at the ruin of the Bridge. It was a miracle that most of the instruments were still either working or salvageable, and that no-one here during the attack had been fatally injured. But for the speed of his reactions Travis would have been killed at his post if he hadn't dodged as one of the pieces of the superstructure above his head crashed down on to the helm station. Eighteen other members of the crew elsewhere in the ship hadn't been so lucky. Dozens more had needed to be treated for injuries ranging from fractures and burns to smoke inhalation. The fact that the ship was still actually supporting life at all had to be regarded as a miracle in itself. They were all tiptoeing around the place as though a careless footfall might shake the bulkheads loose and start a catastrophic disintegration of what remained.

The airlock warning light lit up, drawing her attention back to her console. The repair party was about to leave the ship, venturing out on to the expanse of the external hull plating.

In the circumstances, it was only natural that the comm link between the two men would be on an open channel. Everyone on the Bridge was listening intently. T'Pol was monitoring the status of the affected area and would keep the others updated if the situation changed.

The breathing inside an EV suit always sounded strange. Hoshi shut her eyes momentarily, imagining what it felt like out there under the immensity of space; then, chiding herself fiercely for not doing her job right, she fixed her attention back on the readouts. Both functioning normally, pulses a little elevated but _that _was hardly surprising in the circumstances. Oxygen supply optimal, life support optimal. Surroundings, not optimal. From up there they'd be able to see so much of the damage. Whole chunks of the ship must be missing. Even the part they were walking on would probably have been hit. Pieces of warped and razor-sharp metal could be sticking up, as ready and able as any claw to snag on a suit and rip it open...

_Oh, please, Malcolm, be careful._

Their voices sounded calm enough. Trip, naturally, was in charge, directing his junior officer to the second panel that had to be opened. Considering that the chief engineer was 'running on empty' as far as sleep was concerned, and was living on the shreds of his nerves as far as his emotional state was concerned, he seemed remarkably cool and collected. Even when the second panel was found to be jammed shut, and had to be opened with a plasma torch (an operation that would use up precious time that was fast running out), he stayed steady under fire.

But 'cool' was suddenly not an adjective that applied to Malcolm any more.

The panel he had to cut open was close to where the superheated plasma was boiling out of the ruptured conduit.

The EV suits were built to withstand very high temperatures, but they had a limit, and it had been passed. The environmental controls inside it couldn't keep up with the furnace heat beating on it from outside. And when a second explosion increased the flow of plasma still more, turning it to a volcano erupting mere meters away from him, the warning lights began to flash on the console.

Scorpions thrive in the heat.

Malcolm, being Malcolm, wouldn't mention the fact that he was now being spit-roasted at forty-four degrees Celsius. Hoshi therefore felt no compunction in mentioning this fact to the captain on his behalf.

Captain Archer, responding appropriately to his tactical officer's danger, ordered him to return to the airlock.

Malcolm, still being Malcolm, ignored that order.

_Okay, I'm going to kill him SLOWLY. I'll make things so hot for him he'll have to jump into that plasma jet to cool off._

Forty-five degrees.

Trip ordered him to stop, told him he'd finish up.

More I'm-a-hero-and-I-must-save-the-ship-at-all-costs-even-if-I-die-doing-it crap from Malcolm. Well, not in so many words, but that's what it boiled down to.

She could almost hear the scritch-scritch of the eight legs advancing softly across the hull. The hard starlight gleamed on the sting on the high, curved tail. The powerful, unseen claws hovered. _Will he be fast enough _this_ time?_

Forty-six degrees.

His voice was slurring. He must be on the edge of collapse from heatstroke.

She listened to his labored breathing. The helmet microphone picked up the vibration of the valve being slowly shut down, and on the viewscreen the green spout of fire wavered, lessened and disappeared.

And the breathing had suddenly gone very, very quiet. So quiet, surely the claws were reaching, opening...

She controlled the urge to scream frantically into the comm. _Trip, what's wrong? Why aren't you checking him? Trip, say something, say anything! _But of course the job had to be finished, and Trip could have little concept of the way the odds shorten with every gamble... but at last he was saying something, talking to the man slumped over the second port, Malcolm whose breathing was now hardly more than a feeble rasping of air.

"Tucker to Doctor Phlox..."

Today, it seemed, the scorpion had been cheated yet again of its prey. In her mind, the deadly thing drew back, disappointed, before retreating stealthily into the darkness to resume its patient vigil.

_But there would always be a next time._

* * *

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	72. E2

_'Apparently the Reed line came to a rather unceremonious end.'_

His own words echoed in Malcolm's mind as he trudged up the corridor.

Once upon a time he wouldn't have minded all that much. If truth be told, there'd been times when he'd positively have rejoiced at the news; the thought of passing on some of the genes he must be carrying to the next generation had been positively chilling. And he'd never thought of himself very much in terms of doting fatherhood. He certainly had the example before him of what NOT to do in order to inspire affection in any offspring he might have, but as for the positives, they'd been few and far between in his life. On the whole, he'd thought that any child would be considerably better off having someone else as its male parent.

But things had changed. _He_ had changed. _Enterprise _had changed him. Hoshi had changed him. Being part of a family had changed him – the ship 'family' to which he had gradually come to feel he belonged. Now, he found to his horror how much it hurt to discover that his other self had died as he'd lived – alone, unwanted, rejected.

He knew that Hoshi had understood something of what he felt; she'd done her best to console him with the obvious fact that with men outnumbering women by something like two to one, the other Malcolm certainly wouldn't be the only one who'd ended up unmarried. In view of the fact that they were still keeping their relationship firmly under the radar, she could hardly have said more in Travis's presence. But nevertheless the sense of rejection was suddenly so strong and painful that he'd blurted out the invitation to that pretty blonde crewwoman to sit next to him just to convince himself that he wasn't some kind of social leper. It hadn't helped. He'd had to make his escape from the Mess as soon as possible, leaving his meal unfinished, because suddenly and appallingly he found tears pricking at his eyes.

The other Hoshi had borne children. Two. But their surnames weren't 'Reed'. They had both been registered as 'Sato'.

He could have looked. The basic premises of genetics suggested that the unmarried female members of the crew, breeding a viable gene pool, would have been encouraged to have their children fathered by different men. Emotionally that would have been difficult, but it was hard scientific sense. And in the Expanse, hard facts could not be ignored. The other _Enterprise_'s database contained the details of whose DNA had been passed on; as security officer, he'd been able to access the files without difficulty. He'd have been able to open them if he'd had the courage.

He hadn't.

Hoshi hadn't married him.

Set next to that fact, whether his other-self's DNA had been thought worthwhile to be passed on to one of her children, or indeed anyone else's, was hardly important. In any case, what point would there be in finding out that E2's Malcolm had fathered a son or a daughter, or that any member of the present crew consequently carried genetic material that contained markers belonging to his own? The discovery of what had happened to their other selves was causing his superior officers enough of a problem. What, if he identified anyone, could he possibly say to them? God knew, he wasn't a conversationalist at the best of times. 'Hi, you don't know me but apparently I shagged your grandmother once'? Now _there_ was a conversation-killer. Interesting to see how that could be responded to. Assuming his unfortunate descendant had inherited his non-existent flair for casual chit-chat, the two of them would sit staring dumbly at each other for five seconds and then rush in opposite directions. He could envisage them both creeping around the ship like stealthy terrorists, peering around junctions to make sure the coast was clear of one another before proceeding.

He tried to take what comfort he could from the fact that E2's Hoshi apparently hadn't married anybody. It didn't help much. She hadn't married _him._ No chance now to find out what had happened; no opportunity to take a glimpse into the future, to find out what might still be yet to come in this present time-line, that perhaps could, with forethought and care, be avoided. The chances of anyone still living now having any knowledge of what must be old history in the E2 time line were laughably remote; the relationship hadn't lasted, and it was unlikely that either of the casualties would have been interested in making the failure and the reasons for it common knowledge. The cold, hard, inescapable fact fell across him like the shadow of damnation.

_It hadn't worked out._

So where did that leave him? Holding on and hoping for the best, committing further and further to a relationship that was ultimately doomed – that carried within it the seeds of its ultimate demise? Flying a flag of defiance into the teeth of the gale, even though the ship was doomed to sink with all hands on some reef of whose existence he'd already received the clearest warning?

It took him back squarely into that metaphysical territory he'd briefly explored with Trip when they'd come across that weird craft whose inside was larger than its outside. Then, the question had been whether, if you found out who you would marry at some time in the future, you would go ahead and marry them – and if so, for what reason. Now, however, the question had been turned inside out. In E2's time-line – his and Hoshi's future – the relationship hadn't worked out. Was that a valid reason for giving up on it now?

Logic said _yes. _Cut and run, like he had for so long at the first sign of trouble. As soon as it had dawned on him that relationships were life's way of enabling him to make members of the opposite sex utterly miserable, he'd taken the sex as all he was ever likely to get. Even now he sometimes felt like an impostor, masquerading as a man capable of making a beautiful woman happy – as though he was somehow carrying out some gigantic hoax which would be unmasked in the end, revealing his aspirations as the sham they were. Since when had he deserved what he had?

But his heart screamed _no_ at the bare suggestion. Give up happiness now he'd found it at last, and for no better reason than that the other Hoshi and Malcolm had – for whatever reason – not managed to make it? He could imagine what Hoshi would say to that. Life hadn't taught her the same terrible lessons as it had him; she still believed happiness was something that was there for the taking if you wanted it hard enough.

He knew differently. Knew that sometimes wishing wasn't enough. Because if it was, he'd wish away things that still lingered in the shadows of which he'd used to be a creature; things whose existence he could never allow her to suspect.

Slowly but surely the suspicion was growing in him that he did, after all, know on what reef E2 Malcolm's ship had foundered. The secrets he'd tried for so long to persuade himself were dead and buried...

No. He wouldn't give her up. He _couldn't _give her up. Just because on that other _Enterprise_, doomed to wander the Expanse for another century, fate – in whatever guise – had caught up with him, that didn't mean history was doomed to repeat itself.

He'd reached his quarters by this time and found that he'd stripped off his uniform while he was occupied with these dark deliberations. He was in the bathroom, and he raised his eyes slowly to the mirror opposite him as though almost afraid of what he'd see looking back at him out of it. Grey eyes, guarded, impenetrable, giving away nothing.

_"I won't give her up." _He didn't realise until he heard the low, soft growl that he'd spoken aloud.

_If you want her, you'll have to come and take her._

* * *

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	73. The Council

_'Weapons fire'? _

Lieutenant Reed almost dropped the portion of the memory core he'd been holding as he jerked around in his seat to stare out of the front viewscreen. His simmering guilt and bitterness over Hawkins' death switched off as though he'd flicked a switch, obliterated for the present by larger concerns.

The ship was involved in a fire-fight and he wasn't aboard? And leaving the _system?_

He should be there. He should be manning Tactical, defending his ship, defending what was left of the crew. Eighteen people had died in the first attack, four had succumbed since, and he'd just failed to protect Corporal Hawkins, whom he'd selected to come with him on the mission and for whose safety he'd therefore been personally responsible. Was there anything _else_ he was going to fail miserably at? How many other people were going to die because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time?

And suppose it was...

Her voice on the comm relayed the captain's orders: stay put and wait for the ship's return. Not that they had much choice, with the propulsion system's coil assembly damaged. She sounded excited, apprehensive, but resolute. The sounds of weapons fire filtered through from the background, and Malcolm clenched his fists. _I should be there. _The ship was in no state to take part in another battle, they'd hardly welded the loose parts back together after the last one. And they should have the best helmsman in the Fleet at the steering wheel, too: Travis, who was sitting beside him, listening with the same horrified concentration to the developments and doubtless feeling his own exclusion just as keenly.

It was just fate; no-one was to blame. Just one of those things_._ Except that it wasn't, it was potential tragedy, and to be left trapped here in a half-crippled shuttlepod while _Enterprise_ sped off into another critical situation was absolutely unbearable!

Malcolm set down the memory core component with the utmost care, because the rage that had suddenly erupted in him wanted to smash it into a million pieces. _For God's sake don't come out with another of your Vulcan axioms about _this_, T'Pol. But then I can't believe you give a toss about Trip, do you? If he dies out there without you he'll just be another of the few whose needs are outweighed by those of the many._

He sat back in the seat and stared at the viewscreen. Pointlessly, of course; the battle would have moved beyond visual range long ago. His fingers on the console in front of him flexed slightly, replaying the movements that had become so familiar to him now: letting loose hell with all the weapons _Enterprise_ still had left. They'd got the cannons back before he'd left, and the aft torpedo launchers were fixed more or less; his team had still been working flat out, maybe they'd have fixed one of the forward launchers as well by now, if not both of them – but they'd been pretty well mangled, and the chances were poor. Perhaps if they'd thought to cannibalise one to jury-rig repairs on the second, they might have been able to do something... what the hell, he should have thought of it himself, but he hadn't...

Well, he should be pretty used by now to being adrift in a shuttlepod. At least this time they were warm, and had a decent supply of oxygen – unless they happened to run into a couple more micro-singularities, or a stray Reptilian ship, or a bloody-minded anomaly, or...

_You're a real Grim Reaper, you know that, Malcolm?_

Trip's voice was suddenly so real he almost turned his head to scowl at the speaker.

How long ago now that seemed. He heard his own voice too: _I don't want to die, what makes you think I want to die?_

He still didn't. He wanted to live, but now there were conditions on his survival. The sense of belonging that he'd confessed to back then had coalesced and become bonds past breaking. The friendship with Trip himself, the loyalty to Captain Archer, the camaraderie with his team.

And Hoshi. He loved her. He was no longer in any doubt about that, but somehow he'd never got around to telling her so. He wasn't sure of the reasons, but they centred around a confused dread of her reactions. Maybe it wasn't what she wanted; maybe she didn't feel that way about him. Maybe it would just upset the delicate balance of what they had. Maybe she wouldn't want the responsibility. He hadn't been able to bear the thought of telling her and seeing nothing but pity in her face.

And now it was all in jeopardy, and he'd never told her. If she died not knowing, he'd never forgive himself for his cowardice.

She felt something for him, surely she felt something. The way she smiled, the way she came into his arms, the way she opened up to him like a flower... the memories now were quick agony.

_Oh, God, Hoshi, don't die. I couldn't bear it if you died._

The captain was in charge. The captain would take care of her. If anyone could pull victory out of the jaws of defeat it was he. For all the terrible changes the Expanse had wrought in the man's character, his commitment to keeping his crew safe at any cost remained unaltered. If he could save Hoshi, he would. Malcolm no longer believed in God, but he believed in Jonathan Archer.

It wasn't much comfort, but it was all he had.

_Keep her safe for me, Captain. Please._

* * *

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	74. Countdown

_They're gone._

His own words echoed over and over again in Malcolm Reed's mind as he stumbled out of the turbo-lift. His mind replayed the image of that thrice-damned Xindi weapon simply – disappearing.

Under Reptilian control.

En route to Planet Earth.

He was still shaking with adrenaline from finally being able to shoot at something, from finally being able to give vent to all the intolerable frustration and hatred that had been so long and so rigidly contained during all these months of patient, painstaking searching. He and Travis had been forged into a team that made _Enterprise _a death-dealing work of art, but it still hadn't been enough. Now all the ship's power had to be routed into a chase, a desperate pursuit of the bastards hurtling towards Earth with their stolen weapon. And once they caught up – he resolutely refused to let himself think _if it's not too late – _then he and Travis had unfinished business. And this time, there'd be no damned hesitation. Hayes and his team had done their job; Hoshi was safely back on the ship. Though this summons from Sickbay was damned inopportune in the circumstances, and if he'd had the option he'd have said whatever the problem was, it'd have to wait...

As he reached the double door it dawned on him exactly why he would have been sent an urgent summons from Sickbay in the middle of a tactical alert situation.

His heart gave the queerest lurch, and his head suddenly went very light. He wasn't sure his stomach was still attached to him, because he couldn't feel it.

_She didn't survive. _

_I'm going to kill them all. I'm going to tear them into tiny, screaming pieces. I won't stop till there aren't two of their fucking atoms left sticking together._

He stared helplessly at the door. He couldn't make himself move, couldn't make himself walk in and see Hoshi's body, lifeless on a bio-bed. Couldn't make himself see what those bastards had done to her, to make her their puppet before they killed her. Couldn't make himself see what would haunt him for the rest of his life without her.

He hadn't kept her safe.

He'd failed her.

He'd failed the woman he loved. In her hour of greatest need, he'd failed her utterly.

Hoshi was dead.

The door opened. Blonde hair above the soiled blue coverall. Cutler ... Liz. Blood on her face and hands.

Her eyes peered at him with concern. "Lieutenant?"

He couldn't think of the words. There was too much in his world for him to cope with right now, without having to articulate any of it.

"You'd better get in there fast, sir," she said gently. "I don't think the Major's got long."

Malcolm looked at her.

..._Major..._

_...Hayes...?_

_"We're all part of the same crew, no matter which uniform we wear."_

His heart had started up again. He knew that, because he could feel it bounding erratically in his chest, like a small animal that some cruel child had tied to a stake and was pelting to death with stones.

If he'd let himself make a sound it would have emerged as a whimper. Officers had to set an example. He bit the inside of his mouth till he could have screamed with the pain.

Amazing, when you let yourself think about it, how well your body works when you're not paying attention. How steadily your legs work, even when they feel like straws; how efficiently your spinal column holds you upright when all you want to do is buckle over the wounds and howl like an animal. How you don't take in the smell of blood and urine and excrement in the usually pristine Sickbay, overwhelming the antiseptic odour you know so well. How you can ignore the bodies of the injured and dying, looking only for the two who matter most right at this present moment.

Hoshi. Alive – the monitors tell you that – but you can't grasp the transformation so few hours have wrought. There hasn't been time for her complexion to be changed to this ghastly pallor. There isn't a world where someone could hold her down and batter her and put these livid holes in her temples. Your eyes take it in, but your brain can't process it. You can perceive, but not comprehend.

Maybe she'll live. Maybe she won't.

Vivid blue eyes, exhausted and sorrowful.

Hayes.

The nauseating smell of scorched, melted flesh.

Somebody's talking to you, but there's something wrong with your ears too, because the noises don't make any sense. Weird, there's someone else on board with an English accent, answering the sentences the major comes out with. Both their voices are clipped, one with dying and one with living, but right now you're not sure which of them is which and frankly nothing around here is helping you decide.

And Major Ramrod Hayes has just disobeyed a direct order from a superior officer, no, make that a junior officer, maybe that was why the bastard felt free to ignore it. _Up yours at last, you little English asshole. _

You'd put it on his record but your hands are shaking too hard, and maybe Hoshi won't know how much you need her to hold on in spite of everything, in spite of what _they_ did to her. Maybe she won't believe that you'd spend the rest of your life making it up to her that you didn't do enough to protect her when it mattered.

You walk out of Sickbay without a backward glance. The corridors are unreal. People speak to you but you can't hear them.

Duty takes you to the MACOs. They need to know what's happened. The English voice is curt, dispassionate. The plans have been made. Everything is ready. In ten minutes, three volunteers will accompany the captain and ... others ... to Degra's ship. Perhaps you ought to remember who and why, but it doesn't really matter right now.

You slip briefly back up to the Bridge. For reassurance, mostly. This is all the reality you need.

The tactical console is real. You've never noticed before how truly beautiful it is. Its smooth hardness is solidity in a world that's dissolved around you. The colours are amazing. Its sensors reach out hungrily, as though they're sniffing for the first faint whiff of the blood you can taste in your mouth. The weapons readiness buttons shine eagerly, waiting for commands you're aching to give. Down in the Armoury the torpedoes are part of you. When you fire them it'll feel like ejaculation, except that each blast will come with a wash of pleasure straight out of hell.

The captain's waiting. He needs his war dog, his explosives expert, his avenging angel.

_You were born for this_ _moment._

* * *

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	75. Zero Hour

You know sometimes, when you have to do something that another person will never forgive you for.

I just saw that expression in Malcolm Reed's eyes.

He keeps his guard up most of the time, but I've gotten used to reading him better than I used to. And it sure wasn't difficult to read him when I told him that I was going to have to force Hoshi to help me with decrypting these schematics.

I should be used to it by now, doing things that one day I'll maybe have the leisure to be ashamed of. Right now I haven't, and Hoshi's the only hope we have. He'll just have to cope somehow, and maybe when it's all over he can tell me in glorious detail what a heartless bastard I am. Yeah, like I hadn't worked that out for myself. Dad's little hero, saving the world by bullying a sick, hurt woman half his size, who wouldn't be out here at all if this real nice guy she used to be friends with hadn't talked her into it.

I bend over her, and the smell of sweat assails me. Fear-sweat. Her uniform's rank with it. Nobody's had time to clean her up and give her a change of clothes, and she's lying there almost comatose, her face bruised and dirty, with those godawful marks on her temples where they did ... something ... to her, to make her talk.

Pretty well the same thing I'm going to do to her, really.

Way to go, Jonathan.

A lot of Malcolm's history was classified, even from me. Something to do with the darker end of operations. I asked a few questions in the right places, but even there, there was a brick wall and I hit it – hard. So he's probably not the best guy in the world to have mad at you for torturing his girlfriend. No, more than that: the woman he's utterly in love with. I saw that when they brought her on board and he saw what they'd done to her. As I walked away from him to come down here I had this cold, creepy feeling between my shoulder blades that said it was a good thing he wasn't armed. I've seen him mad before. I've seen him scared, I've seen him happy, I've seen him drunk once or twice, hell, down the years I've seen him most things. I even saw it in his face when he wanted to beat the living daylights out of me for that time there was that ... incident ... when all three of us were transformed into the Loque'eque. But I've never seen that icy, murderous fury that looked out of his eyes as he realized exactly what I'm going to do now.

"Hoshi."

If I believed in God I could ask for forgiveness. Unfortunately, I don't. There is no mercy out in the Expanse. None at all. And Lieutenant Malcolm Reed will never forgive me as long as he lives. Understand, maybe. At a guess he's been places where dirty people had to do dirty things, whether they liked it or not. But forgive? Forget it.

_"Hoshi. Wake up."_

* * *

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	76. Storm Front Part 1

"You're absolutely sure you feel up to this?"

"Yes, Malcolm. Quite sure." She watched him look across at Phlox, wanting confirmation. He wouldn't take her word for it, of course. An inability that sometimes made her want to hug him and other times made her want to clout some sense into him, but that was just the way he was – the archetypal worrier.

"There's no medical reason at all why Ensign Sato shouldn't resume her full-time duties if she feels up to it." Phlox beamed at them both. "She's performed perfectly well on restricted duties and her neural damage has healed beautifully. One more injection, and the remaining parasites should be gone. And I'm sure you'd both like to be on the Bridge for our arrival back on Earth."

"Well – shift starts in twenty minutes. We can take a slow walk up." She grinned. They'd had breakfast together, and she felt good.

"That sounds like a good idea to me." Malcolm grinned back at her, and the two of them walked out of Sickbay after rendering due thanks to Phlox.

"It's going to be really strange coming back without Captain Archer," said Hoshi a little sadly as they walked down the corridor. "But we succeeded in what he took us out there to do, so I guess that's what he'd think was the important thing."

"Hmm." He seemed a little distracted. "Hoshi, would you mind if we just stopped off at the observation lounge for a minute or two? I was reading in there last night and I forgot my book."

"No problem." It was only just down the corridor. And there were some good memories associated with that place, so she definitely had no problem revisiting it, especially in the present company. At a guess he'd be remembering that too, and he'd give her the smile that turned her heart over, though unfortunately they didn't have time to linger – not that staging a repeat performance would be a good idea anyway, not just as the day shift was getting into gear. The chances of them remaining undisturbed were virtually zero.

They walked through the door, but instead of going to pick up any book he turned and caught her into his arms and gave her a long, lingering kiss that left her dizzy, and not only with surprise.

"What was all that about?" she asked breathlessly, as he finally released her mouth, though he didn't let go of her.

"I've ... I want to ask you something, and there's nowhere on this ship that even remotely qualifies as 'suitable', but this was where we ... not that that's ... oh, hell!" He took a deep breath, just as her heart jumped into her throat. "Hoshi, I love you. And I know it's a bit early to ask, and if you say no I'll completely understand, but ..." he swallowed audibly, and dropped to one knee in front of her. "Will you marry me?"

All the romantic traditions were clear on what a lady ought to do when receiving a proposal of marriage. That said, it was the last thing she'd been expecting, and as soon as it dawned on her what was coming, every last one of her coherent thought processes had packed and left the building. It was not, however, very likely that any of the aforementioned traditions included gawping down at your prospective fiancé as though he'd suddenly suggested throwing you out of the nearest airlock rather than making you the future Mrs. Reed.

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't – you don't ..." Mortification washed over his face at her stunned silence, and he started to get back to his feet.

Unfortunately he was only half-way through the movement when she grabbed hold of him and kissed him. At least, kissing him was the plan, but as he overbalanced and fell backwards it didn't happen. He landed on his butt, and she fell on top of him, knocking him flat. At least in this position she could follow through with her original plan, and she kissed him breathless, not caring if Captain Archer in person walked in through the door and caught them _in flagrante._

Evidently aware that if someone didn't get a handle on the situation fast it was going to get rapidly out of hand, he eventually pushed her away long enough to get a good look at her face.

"Is that a 'yes'?" he asked, with a smile of delight threatening to break out and split his face in half.

"Yes! Oh, yes!" She buried her face in the angle of his neck, reveling in the feeling of his closeness. So often she'd wondered what he felt for her, but never dared to ask, fearing she wouldn't like the answer; he was always deeply uncomfortable discussing such personal issues as feelings. If sex was the only closeness she could have with him, she was perfectly willing to settle for it, but of late she'd begun to think that what they had was more than just sex. She'd realized months ago that she loved him. But that he loved her in return had been little more than a dream.

"Bloody hell!" His arms closed around her, crushing her till she squeaked, at which he instantly and apologetically released her. "Right. So there's something else I have to do. If I can remember which pocket I put it in ..."

Hoshi sat up, wide-eyed, discovering in the process that his personal phase pistol shared his enthusiasm for developments, despite the fact that they were not only on duty but also in an extremely public place. Grinning wickedly, she proceeded to make his predicament rather worse.

"If you don't stop that I won't even remember that I _have_ pockets," he gasped.

This not being conducive to their getting onto the Bridge for the start of their shift, she stopped and looked unconvincingly demure.

He exacted revenge by pretending to search every part of his coveralls, but eventually took pity on her. From the small pocket on his right sleeve he drew out a narrow, smooth band of metal.

"I bought the stone just before we left Jupiter Station," he said in a low voice, a little hesitantly. "I don't know, it just seemed like ... like some sort of talisman, some kind of hope we might get through. And the metal, I ... I know rings are supposed to be gold, but ... it's duranium. Part of _Enterprise's _hull. I thought you might like that, because ... well, because of everything. I salvaged it while we were doing the repairs, and I've been working on it on the way home. But if you don't like it you can choose a proper one when we get back to Earth, of course," he ended hurriedly.

In a little silence she watched him slip it on to her finger. She didn't know what the stone was, but it was a deep, vivid, clear blue oval, in which slightly pinkish lights woke as she looked at it more closely. The band was perfectly smooth and round, but instead of being polished to a mirror finish it looked brushed, a startling contrast to the brilliance of the stone. It must have taken him many hours of painstaking labor at an unfamiliar art to create a thing of such beauty. It was even the right size.

"Malcolm, I'll treasure it as long as I live," she said a little huskily. "But – you know I can't wear it yet. And we can't tell anyone. We have to talk it over, find out what our options are. If we want to make this official it might mean we have to leave the ship."

He nodded. "Yes. I'm aware of that. But if that's what it takes, then I'm prepared to pay it." He kissed her passionately again, and then broke off. "And if we want to get to the bridge for the start of our shift, we're going to have to run like blazes."

They scrambled up, and she regretfully removed the ring, tucking it safely into one of her own pockets.

"I can't be late on my first day back," she remonstrated playfully. "You picked a hell of a time to propose!"

"I wanted to know, one way or the other, before we got back to Earth," he answered as they left the Observation Lounge and headed quickly for the turbo-lift. "It'll all be so chaotic there when we get back. I was afraid I'd lose track of you somehow, and that would be it."

"Not much danger of that now," she commented. She'd been making plans for the short trip up to 'A' Deck if the lift had been empty, but as the doors hissed open they revealed Trip, also on his way to the bridge. As a result of which, the plans had to be postponed, although she planned to spend every spare moment of her shift elaborating and adding to them for later.

"Lookin' a lot better these days, Hosh'!" said Trip cheerfully as they got in. "I hear you're back with us full time from today!"

"I wouldn't have missed today for the world," she said, smiling, and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"And geez, even Malcolm's lookin' happy!" The chief engineer gave them both a speculative look. "Now if I didn't know any different ..."

"You don't know anything, sir," the lieutenant interrupted him ruthlessly. But the brightness in his eyes was too great to be hidden from such an observant friend.

"Well, in that case I won't say anything." But he gave Hoshi a great big bear hug, and even Malcolm was the recipient of a rather more decorous one, mainly because the lift was too small to give him space to dodge away and even an 'Oh, bloody hell!' couldn't save him.

"Not a word!" admonished Hoshi as the lift reached 'A' deck.

"Scout's honor." Trip winked.

And so they left it.

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	77. Storm Front Part 2

"There's nothing quite as satisfying as lining up a target visually." Malcolm dipped his fork into his mashed potatoes and lifted a lightning glance in Hoshi's direction that she had no difficulty whatsoever in interpreting. "Beats using a targeting scanner every time."

"Yeah, it was fun, wasn't it?" enthused Travis, whose gaze had been fixed so appreciatively on his dinner that he'd missed the glance completely. "Three hits in a row! Blam! Blam! Blam! I bet you really enjoyed it!"

"Oh, I did. Enormously. I always do."

Just how did he keep his face straight, Hoshi wondered, taking refuge in her chicken teriyaki.

"It's great doing something like that every now and then." The helmsman attacked his ravioli with his usual gusto.

"You can't do it too often, as far as I'm concerned," said Reed blandly.

"Perhaps we can ask the captain for permission for you to practise oftener."

_Okay, Travis, I'm already getting muscle spasms in my face. _She didn't dare look in the ensign's direction; the sight of his innocent enthusiasm would have undone her. _You're in a deep enough hole already, so for God's sake stop digging. Preferably, right now. _

Seeing that half his audience was safely immersed in his own dinner, Malcolm lifted a small cauliflower floret to his mouth and licked it with the utmost delicacy before sliding it between his lips in a way that was guaranteed to make her break out in a sheen of perspiration. "Oh, I think the captain fully appreciates the need for a weapons officer to have a live target now and again."

"Well, I think it's a really good idea." Travis looked up just a second too late, and waved his fork enthusiastically. "Simulations are okay, but they just don't cut the real thing."

"You can say that again," agreed Malcolm.

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	78. Home

"Enjoy yourself at Madame Chang's tomorrow, love." Malcolm leaned down and kissed her. "I don't think I'll be back in time, or I'd join you and the others."

She rolled over and reached up to put a hand to his chest. Behind him the French window stood open to the veranda, and the dawn sunshine was just spilling into the cloudless sky.

They'd checked into the luxury hotel under fake identities, avoiding the endless attention that had already begun to become wearing after the simplicity of life on board ship. A week was far too short a time to enjoy being able to relax and make love in such sumptuous surroundings, especially when Malcolm had had to take time out to go bar-crawling with Phlox and Travis, chiefly to avert suspicion from what he was actually doing with his accumulated leave time.

It was that outing that had brought a hiatus to their idyll. He had gone out more resigned than anything (though that hadn't stopped him from wearing his jacket with the _Enterprise_ badge – a closet show-off lurked beneath that shy exterior), and returned deeply troubled by the xenophobia that they'd encountered. The presence of an alien had triggered ugly scenes in one of the bars they'd visited, and while nobody had been injured, the discovery of the less palpable changes that the Xindi attack had wrought on Earth had worried him deeply.

He was setting out now to visit some 'friends' who could give him more accurate information on the broader picture. Although disappointed by losing him for a couple of days, Hoshi understood his compelling sense of duty to investigate the viciousness he'd described. And she didn't intend to waste her time moping while he was gone; she had shopping to do and friends to visit, and the visit to Madam Chang's with Phlox had been an understood thing for a long time, on account of the Denobulan's inordinate fondness for the egg drop soup they served there.

"Please be careful," he said now, and she knew he was torn, thinking of the scene in the bar the night before. "I wish I could be with you, but it's a decent area around there. Better than where we went."

"Phlox went back to the ship," she said inconsequentially. "I've got to go see him for my last check-up."

"Well, that's no problem." He kissed her again. "I'm sure Travis will fly you up there. And you can bring Phlox down with you. And if you don't stop looking so irresistible I'm going to take all my clothes off again and get back into bed with you."

"I could live with that." She smiled up at him languorously.

"Vixen." Malcolm pulled up her left hand and set his lips gently to the blue stone that was sparkling on the ring there. "And _don't_ forget to take this off before you go. Or Travis will have a field day."

"I wish we could tell him."

"Well, so do I. But I have enough to worry about, wondering whether Trip's going to drop us in the smelly stuff one of these days."

"You've got a point." She sighed. "But there's not much chance of him getting up to any mischief on Vulcan."

A wry smile appeared on his face. "You know better than that, love. Trip Tucker could get up to mischief if he was tied up and wrapped in cotton wool and locked in his own cabin for a week."

"T'Pol will keep him on the straight and narrow."

"Hmm." He looked uneasy again, staring into the distance.

"You don't think ..."

"Oh, I don't know what I think. Perhaps I'm just borrowing trouble." With a visible effort he smoothed out the worried frown. "I'd better get off, the flitter will be waiting. If you need me, call me. Any time."

"I will miss you, you know. Especially after supper." She saw in his face that he was remembering the previous evening, and that the flitter's attractions were wavering. So she laughed up at him, and sent him on his way.

But he'd promised to be back late tomorrow night. And he was a man of his word.

And _then _he was going to make it up to her.

She could hardly wait.

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	79. Borderland

When your best buddy's as happy as mine is, you're supposed to be happy too, right?

Right.

And he's happy. As happy as I've ever seen him. Sometimes I catch the little look that flashes between him and Hoshi across the Bridge, and I almost expect the air to start sparklin'.

Well, I know that's kinda fanciful. I'm not big on poetry really; that's more his line. His la-di-dah English education probably had loads of that stuff: Tennyson, Byron, Keats, Blake ... the sort of guys who probably went to the same sort of English public school he did. Bet they even had the same annoyin' accent too. Spoke out of the tops of their noses, probably because they were usin' the rest to look down on the rest of us poor mortals.

Not that Malcolm does that. Oh, to start with I think he had a few issues, but that's just Malcolm, and even then I knew that if it came down to a brawl he was the man I'd pick to have watchin' my back for me. But hell, he was so unhappy. Wound up tighter'n a watch spring in one of those antiques they sell for fortunes back on Earth.

And that's what I've always hated the worst about the memories of that time in Shuttlepod 1 when we thought the rest of the crew were history. Those goddamn letters he dictated. The sheer desperation to feel like he'd meant somethin' to somebody. If he'd stripped his uniform off and walked round the shuttle butt-naked I'd have seen less of him. And I was havin' enough problems of my own without listenin' to Malcolm Reed's bared soul bleedin' into the shuttle logs ...

Weird, how things change around when you don't even feel the ground shiftin' under your feet. Back then I was the happy one, with everything to look forward to. Okay, when I got that letter from Natalie it wasn't good for a while, but I got over it.

But things went wrong, so wrong, and I can't point to any one place where I could'a done differently and made everything okay. I know. You're gonna say 'The Cogenitor', and well, I've had loads of time to think about what I did, but I'm not sure I was as wrong as Jon made out. I saw somethin' that made me mad, somethin' that was just a rank injustice, what was I supposed to do? Just turn round and say hey, it's just the way they are, it doesn't matter? 'Cause it _always_ matters. Maybe I should've thought harder, maybe I should've seen the way things were bound to pan out. But even then I'm not sure I could've just said nothin', left things to take their course. Not after seein' the way she ... the way she came to life, like a plant bein' taken out of a dark cupboard an' watered an' put on a sunny windowsill. I had to try. I'm just sorry she was the one who ended up payin' the price for it.

The thing with Sim. Want the truth? I'm still tryin' to get my head round that. Sometimes I think I remember things, and I don't know whose memories they are, and it just freaks me out 'cause there's no-one I can talk to about it. I tried once, with Phlox, but he got so damned upset himself I didn't go again. But then again, he was Sim's father in every way but the biological one, and then at the end he had to kill him to save me. I can only guess what that did to him, however hard Jon was leanin' on him – and the Expanse killed Jonathan Archer, at least the Jonathan Archer who used to be my best pal. I guess all the others had their own problems with it too, I asked Malcolm about it once but he shut up like a clam and said he wasn't qualified. Seems to me it freaked him out pretty badly too.

And it's all messed up with T'Pol. Who told me herself Sim kissed her, right in her cabin where she used to give me neuropressure. Jealous of myself. Right. Like _that's_ goin' to help me get things sorted. Though when she dropped her robe, I stopped bein' jealous, because for one glorious night I actually thought she'd finally admitted she felt the same for me as I did for her.

But let's not get carried away here. I'm a _lab rat._ Someone she chose for her little 'experiment into human sexuality.' An' as if that weren't enough, I'm the hopeless jerk she takes home to meet her Momma and then tells she's goin' to marry someone else, right there in front of him. Jeez. Charles Tucker III, you sure picked a winner this time. An' the worst thing is, I'd still die for a single smile from her. Except that now she's a _married woman_, someone else's _married woman_, and if you ask me that Koss is an oily, self-satisfied sonofabitch, and if he doesn't treat her right so help me God I'll hitch a damned ride to Vulcan if I have to and beat his face through the back of his goddamned head.

So there we are. How things turn around. Just like one of those teeter-totters kids play on in the park: Malcolm up, me down. And I swear, I'm tryin' my best not to envy him, because if anyone deserves it he does. But it's so hard, when there's not enough to stop me thinkin' these thoughts that go round and round in my head, and she's there and it's worse than if she wasn't because I can't lay a finger on her now. Even the neuropressure's out the window, however much I might need it. Because that's not the sort of thing you do with another man's wife. No matter how wonderful it was. _Especially_ because of how wonderful it was.

Sometimes I get the feeling he wants us to talk. He's not a talker, Malcolm, and right now he's got enough on his plate with having Soong on the ship takin' us God-knows-where after those Augments he created all those years ago. Arik Soong is a modern-day Houdini, and the responsibility for keepin' him shackled is all down to Malcolm and his team. I don't envy him that. It's about the only thing I don't, these days. But still, sometimes I think he tries to work himself up to some kind of heart-to-heart thing with me when he can find the time; though I always make some kind of excuse and walk away. He means well, if that's what he's after, but I wouldn't be able to handle it. I'm still ashamed when I think of how I bawled him out for tryin' to help after Lizzie died. No wonder he's reduced to droppin' these worried, awkward little hints about bein' there if I want a chat about anything. But he can hint away – for both our sakes, I'll just go on ignorin' them. At a guess I'd end up punchin' him, just because he's so goddamned lucky and I'm not.

Yeah, how the world turns. Never known anything like it. And the only thing I'm certain of is that it's only goin' to get harder and harder, carryin' on like nothin's changed and nothin's wrong, and the woman I love didn't go and marry someone else right in front of me.

Well. I'm copin' with it for now.

But how long it'll last?

You tell me.

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	80. Cold Station 12

I swear to God. Even after all this time, he hasn't learned his lesson.

I'd done _my _homework; I knew what we could be facing when we caught up with these Augments, and quite frankly I was bricking it at the thought of trying to tackle all nineteen of them at once. If I'd have had my way we'd all have been carrying phase rifles, but no, we wouldn't need all that firepower, would we?

Of course not.

Well, it was a bit of a relief to discover that our birds had flown the nest, so to speak. On their home territory, where they'd know the layout of the place so well and would have had time to prepare any number of traps and pitfalls, they'd have an advantage I'd rather they didn't when we finally caught up with them. But there was still one little birdie left – an _Augment_ birdie. And it didn't fool me one little bit that he looked a bit lost and forlorn. I've seen the unlikeliest candidates suddenly turn into deadly threats, and I wasn't taking any chances with this one. Especially when he was standing within easy striking distance of the captain. Yes, that's right. The captain who hired me to keep the crew safe – to keep _him_ safe – to do what a Tactical Officer does on board a starship. Well. That's the idea, anyway. (Or rather, that was _my_ idea of my job when I signed on; I discovered fairly early on that my commanding officer and I didn't quite see eye to eye on that score.)

So, when confronted by a potential enemy created by a madman like Soong, what does Captain Archer do?

Yes. Of course. I've got the little bastard covered with my phase pistol in case he tries anything, and the captain tells me to lower the weapon. I can read him like a book by now: _Awww, it's all on its own and it looks all lost and harmless, so I'll trust it and it won't attack me._

Hell's bells, you'd have thought the Expanse would have taught him better than that. That's probably what the Illyrians thought about us, and look where it got _them_.

Still, orders are orders, so I lowered the pistol muzzle like a good little lieutenant doing what the captain tells him to.

And what happened?

The poor ickle lost Augment pulled a knife.

Well, bloody hell, who'd have expected _that. _

So instead of the situation being resolved with one squeeze of a trigger, the commanding officer of a starship trying to stop an all-out war breaking out between Earth and the Klingon Empire ends up having to defend himself bare-handed from a bloody-minded little git the others had left behind because he didn't measure up to their exacting standards.

And that's why instead of trying to sneak a tryst with my fiancée I'm here in the gym instead, beating the crap out of the punch-bag because it's the only way I can vent my temper. And only when I've sweated myself to a standstill will I go back to my room, shower and change and ask her if we can meet up somewhere so I can explain. It's always safer to have our less intimate meetings somewhere neutral – hiding in plain view, so to speak. And nobody appears to have thought it odd that I should have expressed an interest in being able to make myself understood in Klingon, so we can sit together and look busy and innocent; besides, she's already taught me some wonderful insults. Not that I particularly want to be in the situation where they might come in handy, but you never know. It pays to be prepared for every eventuality. Though _at a guess_ I'd just have succeeded in diverting the enemy attention nicely to myself with my fluency when Captain Suicide would put his arm up and shout, 'No, attack ME instead!'

Hell. I haven't hit anything this hard since the day I had that punch-up with Hayes. I suppose I'll never know whether he really was after my job or not; looking back, I get the feeling I might have misjudged him. That's not to say he didn't sit up and beg for it; it was six of me and half-a-dozen of him, so to speak. But I sometimes wish we could have got past our mutual animosity somehow. I get the feeling that once he'd accepted someone he'd be a good bloke to be mates with. And however much he riled me, I know his MACOs worshipped the ground he walked on. It takes an exceptional officer to inspire that kind of loyalty.

I put my arms around the punch-bag to still it and find myself staring into the mirror beyond. That was where his reflection appeared that day, behind me. Goading me beyond endurance by his bloody politeness. Though by that time he was pretty well goading me just by breathing, so being polite was always going to fall under the heading of 'provocation'. But he rescued Hoshi, and died doing it; I'll be forever in his debt for that. I hope he knew how grateful I was – it's a damned high price to pay for someone else's happiness. That said, I know he liked Hoshi. How could anyone not like Hoshi? I reckon he'd be glad to have made _her_ happy. And I think she's happy. She says she is, even if I find it hard to believe that I could actually have met the woman of my dreams and got her to promise to marry me.

_Though I wonder, if she knew ..._

I push the thought away. All that's over, done with, part of the past. I was a different person then. There's no need for her to know things that would only upset her, and better for her that she doesn't. Covert ops is a dirty business and dirty people do it. The less she knows, the safer she is, and I prefer it that way.

So. Forget it. And get ready for everything to kick off again when we finally track down these Augments.

You never know.

This time the captain might actually let me do my job...

* * *

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	81. The Augments

"All safe?"

"Yes. All done. He's back in Starfleet custody, thank God."

Malcolm sheds the last of his clothes and slips into the bunk beside me. I can feel the difference at once: that tension that's gripped him throughout the time when Arik Soong has been aboard has gone, the awful responsibility sloughed off his shoulders at last.

I know perhaps better than anybody how mortified and enraged he was when Soong slipped out of custody. He took it as a personal insult. I honestly believe that if the ship hadn't set out in pursuit he'd have gone AWOL in pursuit all by himself. Sometimes it worries me a bit that there's that obsessive streak to him; it surfaces now and again, like a shark's fin in a smooth sea whose surface I can't see through.

So I naturally expect that now the runaway is safely back in his ultra-secure Starfleet jail and the Augments are history, I'll get my former lover back. I wait for him to start touching me, kissing me, setting me on fire the way he knows so well how to do.

But it doesn't happen.

He just lies there on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Now if I'm honest, I prefer it when we share my cabin. Okay, its smaller (lieutenant cuts ensign) and has the disadvantage of being in a more crowded area of the deck, so we have to be extra careful there's nobody about when he leaves to return to his own, as well as being extra careful not to let our, ah, _enthusiasm_ run away with us. But its real advantage, to my mind, is that it has a viewing port. Even now the vista of all those stars sliding by can be pure magic. But not as magic as seeing what I dreamed about for so long.

He has a beautiful body. I could spend an hour just looking at it, admiring how toned it is. Though obviously I enjoy getting a practical demonstration. Tactical officer? Malcolm Reed has tactics I'd never even heard of before. And we won't get on to the weaponry.

But tonight what captures my attention even more than his beautifully toned body is the expression on his face. Fatigue is etched on it, but frankly I'd be astonished if it wasn't. The last few days have been impossibly hard on him. I wouldn't even be all that surprised if he was too tired for sex, just wanted some good old-fashioned cuddling as he went to sleep – the sound sleep he's been missing out on ever since Arik Soong came aboard. I could put up with that. Cuddling Malcolm is one of life's pleasures as far as I'm concerned.

It isn't just fatigue, though. It's sadness. And I can't for the life of me imagine why he should be sad. After all, we did what we set out to do. The Augments are gone, Soong is back in prison, and the ship's safe. We can get back to being a ship of exploration at last – return to what we signed up to do, all those years ago. It feels like half a lifetime.

"Malcolm?" When he still doesn't look at me, I touch his mouth gently with my fingertips. "What's wrong? Is it something you can talk about?"

He turns his head at that, and his gaze fixes on me with something like bewilderment.

"Hoshi. I'm ... I'm sorry. I just feel so stupid."

Whatever else I was expecting, it wasn't that. I prop myself up on my elbow to look down at him in concern.

"This isn't about me, is it?"

"No!" His response is quick and emphatic enough to reassure me. "No, love, never." His arm goes around me and pulls me in close, and I'm so relieved that I just drop my head on to his chest and wait for him to go on, if he wants to. And if he doesn't, that's fine with me as well. Sometimes he just prefers to work things out on his own. At any rate, we're together, and he loves me, and I can hear his heart beating steadily and strongly behind his ribcage, so pretty well everything is okay in my world as far as that goes. Though like any woman, I don't like it when my man's so evidently upset about something.

He's silent for so long that I think he's not going to speak at all, though he's not asleep; his fingers are playing with my hair, teasing out the long silky strands.

"I watched the security recordings just now," he says at last, in a voice so low I can hardly hear him. "You'll have heard that Malik was killed here on _Enterprise_, of course?"

It's not irony, or at least not much; half a day is easily long enough for the scuttlebutt to get around the ship. You can't have the Augment leader get a hole blown clean through him without someone talking. And Malcolm knows of old that Travis and I ... well, we like to know what goes on around the place.

"Ye-es," I say a little dubiously. "You're not going to tell me you're sorry about that, are you?"

A short laugh. "Hardly! I'd feel more grief for a rattlesnake."

This is getting more and more mysterious. I lift my head again and peer at him. "Well I know you didn't kill him, because you were with us on the Bridge when it happened. I took it for granted it was one of the MACOs. So what's the problem?"

"It wasn't one of the MACOs." His voice is even quieter than before. "It was the captain who did it."

"The _captain?_" I'm so astonished that I sit up with a jerk, though I remember to keep my voice down. At a guess, this isn't something he'd want broadcast around the ship, and I won't be spreading it around. "_Captain_ _Archer_ killed Malik?"

"Yes." His gaze on me is steady, but it's filled with something I can only describe as horror – and grief. "He shot him in the back, without giving him a chance to surrender."

It takes me a little while to get my head around this information. I try to picture it, and I can't. Jonathan Archer is no cold-blooded executioner. Or is he? He's not the man he was before the Expanse touched him.

"I'm sure he thought it was the right thing to do," I venture at last.

"It was absolutely the right thing to do. I'd have done it without a second thought." Something about his flat voice chills me for a moment, but I've had to learn to cope with the fact that his duty sometimes requires him to be something completely different to the kind, gentle man I'm in love with.

Then I understand.

"You just hate the fact that the captain could do it."

There's a long silence, and then he laughs, a laugh that breaks in the middle as though he's close to tears.

"'Beware what you pray for, says God; for you may get it.' I've spent all this time wishing he'd learn, wishing he'd get real. And now he has. And as I watched that recording I found myself wishing to God I could turn back time and make him what he used to be again. As maddening as he was, there was something about him I envied. Something that wouldn't shoot a man in the back. Not even an Augment." His hand comes up and slips gently down my side, but there's nothing sexual about the movement; it conveys only loneliness, and an inability to reach out across the gulf that has suddenly opened up. "I shouldn't have come here tonight. You don't deserve to suffer for my bad mood."

"Malcolm Reed, if you ever say that again I'll ... well, you'd better _not_ say that again!" I drop flat across his body and stare into his eyes. "If you're upset I want to be there for you. Just like you would for me!"

He smiles. It's not the most genuine smile I've ever seen, but it's there.

"Hoshi, what did I ever do to deserve you?"

I pretend to think.

"Well, nothing since you came on board _Enterprise._ Maybe you were really good in a previous life."

The smile's gone in an instant.

"I think we can rule that theory out."

"Hey!" I'm finding that lying on top of that toned body is giving me some really unsuitable ideas. And I want so badly to wipe that terrible, frozen look off his face.

I don't think talking's going to do it. So, time to deploy some of the more underhand tactics I've learned from him.

He holds out for a while. I'll give him that. He's been trained to resist interrogation, after all. But he hasn't been trained to resist Hoshi Sato when she's really determined. And I'm not convinced he really wants to anyway.

After a while, he's obviously not thinking any more about Captain Archer shooting a man in the back. Oddly enough, though, I find it a bit difficult to stop thinking about it myself. I still can't imagine it: Jonathan taking aim and pulling the trigger without a word of warning, and with the cold look of an executioner on his face. Maybe that was the expression he wore when Sim had to die to save Trip – or, more accurately, to save the mission.

To paraphrase an old saying: 'You can take the man out of the Expanse, but you can't take the Expanse out of the man.'

Malcolm just found that out.

I just didn't expect it to hurt him so much.

* * *

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	82. The Forge

"The Vulcans have said that the Embassy is considered as United Earth territory, so they've left it untouched for us to investigate. Naturally, they'll be interested in anything we come up with by way of evidence. And since this is an explosives issue, Malcolm, that's with you." Captain Archer concluded the briefing.

Reed nodded. "Sir."

"You'll want to take an away team with you, of course."

"With respect, sir, I think the fewer the better. Just in case of accidents. If I could take one other person, I think that would be enough. Preferably someone who packs some muscle – it's not going to be tidy down there after an explosion of that magnitude."

"If you're after a volunteer, Lieutenant..." Travis grinned as though he was being invited to a party.

"Hmm. I suppose you'll do, Ensign." The small smile took the sting from his words. "Though I'm sure I don't have to remind you how dangerous this could be. There may be other devices that failed to detonate. And even if there aren't, the area will probably be dangerously unstable."

"So what are we waiting for?" asked the helmsman gaily.

"We will be tracking you at all times, Lieutenant," said T'Pol as the meeting broke up. "Please do not take any unnecessary risks."

"I have no intention of it, Sub-Commander."

"Still puzzles me, though, that the Vulcans aren't insistin' on havin' one of their own people along while you nose about." Trip was frowning down at the display of what was left of the Embassy. "Just seems strange that they're relyin' on us givin' em everythin' we find."

"V'Las did not strike me as being blindly trusting," agreed T'Pol.

"Perhaps it's just that if there's a bomb left there they'd rather a human trod on it," said Malcolm drily.

"Well, _that_ little thought sure cheered us all up!" Trip glared.

"But then, I have no intention of treading on any piece of evidence – explosive or otherwise. I do have experience with this sort of thing, Commander."

"Well, just in case, we'll have a man standing by at the transporter. If you have a problem, we can get you out of there in a couple of seconds. Just give Hoshi the word." The captain watched the two of them lock eyes; it was brief, but eloquent. "I know you don't like being beamed up, but it's preferable to the alternative if something goes wrong down there."

"Infinitely preferable, sir. And we'll leave the shuttle at a safe distance, just in case."

"Forget about the damned shuttle!" Trip was evidently still irked. "Just make sure you get your two sorry asses out of there in one piece!"

The tactical officer dipped his head. "I'll get the scanners I need out of the Armoury. Travis, I'll meet you in the shuttlebay in ten."

"I'll go start gettin' the shuttle prepped." Trip accompanied Malcolm into the turbo-lift. To judge by the expression on his face, he hadn't yet said all he meant to say on the subject of not taking risks, and intended to remedy that situation while he had a captive audience. Reed's resigned expression indicated he was aware of his probable fate on that score.

While Travis was momentarily occupied with bringing his replacement up to speed with helm status, Archer stepped over to the comm station, where Hoshi was just settling down to begin monitoring again.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you to keep the closest possible eye on the situation, Ensign," he said softly.

"No, sir." She blushed very slightly at his conspiratorial grin.

"I'm sure there's nothing to worry about," he went on more audibly. "I can't think of anyone I'd trust more than Malcolm in a situation like this, but I think it's better to keep all our bases covered."

"I couldn't agree more, sir," she said, smiling.

* * *

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	83. Awakening

_Vulcans._

Considering they'd so consistently taken the high moral line when it came to humanity's imperfections, Malcolm thought morosely, they could give humanity lessons when it came to conniving and double-dealing.

He sat down in the empty Mess Hall and ran an unsteady hand through his hair. After the turbulence in the shuttle he needed something to calm his stomach before he returned to the Bridge. He thought he had time to sink a cup of tea, as long as he made it a short one.

As a rule, he didn't much care who he was ordered to shoot at, but firing at Vulcan patrol ships in Vulcan's atmosphere while attempting to flout the orders of the Vulcan High Command was a new one. The fact that the shuttle had survived to limp back to _Enterprise _was only due to the fact that they'd been allowed to escape. And at a guess, it would be only a short time – a very short time – before it was more than patrol ships they'd be facing. The patrol ships wouldn't be strong enough to menace a starship, but there was no doubt that battle cruisers would shortly take their place. And then Acting Captain Tucker would be running very, very short of options.

The wily V'Las obviously didn't want to start a row with Starfleet. That's why he was going to such lengths to drive the Earth ship away, so that he could get on with settling Vulcan's internal disputes unobserved. But it was reaching the point where he could claim sufficient provocation for firing on _Enterprise_ herself, especially now that Trip was actually disobeying Starfleet orders to remove the ship.

But did they dare trust his promise that the captain and T'Pol would be returned unharmed? If the two of them were among the Syrannites whom the High Command had evidently decided were the enemy, and were about to set about destroying, then it might well be that their deaths might fairly be considered to be collateral damage – their own fault for being where they shouldn't.

"He won't give a toss if they're blown to Kingdom Come," he muttered to himself, taking a sip to see if his tea was cool enough to drink down yet. "Bastard."

"Guess you got that about right," said a tired voice behind him.

He jumped. Unsurprisingly, the tea slopped over his hand and the table. It was still quite hot enough to smart, and he hissed a couple of imprecations quite unbefitting a Starfleet officer, shaking his hand to dislodge the drops.

"Sorry." Trip was on the way to get himself a cup of coffee. He looked drawn, as well he might. "Didn't realize you hadn't heard me come in."

"Bit of a rough ride on the shuttle. Gave me a bit of an upset stomach." Malcolm gave a slightly embarrassed grimace. "I'll be up on the Bridge as soon as I've drunk this."

"What's left of it." Tucker stared into his own mug as the beverage dispenser filled it. "Malcolm, if you were in my place – if it was Hoshi down there – would you put the ship in danger to try to save her?"

"Pardon?" He blinked.

"You heard me. If it was Hoshi – an' she'd married someone else – would you put the lives of everyone on _Enterprise_ at risk, just tryin' to rescue her?"

_Oh my God, I didn't see this one coming. So much for being the ship's Tactical Officer. _

"I don't know," he said stupidly. "No, I think. I – I hope I'd be able to say no. No matter who she'd married."

"Then I guess you don't love Hoshi like I love T'Pol."

The snipe was cruel and unfair, and because Malcolm was tired and frightened and caught off-balance he lost his temper.

"You have no bloody right to make judgements on something you know fuck-all about! I love Hoshi more than I do myself!"

"That's not sayin' much!" yelled Trip, losing his own. "I was with you in that shuttlepod, remember?"

Reed's fingers tightened convulsively around his mug of tea and for an instant he actually contemplated hurling it. Fortunately he remembered a piece of advice somebody had given him long ago – somebody he'd kissed as the life ebbed away from them: _Somethin' you do when you're angry is somethin' you'll live to regret._

"I'm sorry you had to be, Commander." The fury had abruptly congealed into ice. "But the fact remains that you're in command of a starship with almost a hundred people on board, none of whom are responsible for the fact that you're in love with someone who married somebody else. And if you want to kill all of them for nothing, that's your command decision to make. I have enough trouble carrying my conscience without carrying yours."

"I didn't _ask_ to be in goddamn command! I'm just a goddamn engineer, and they don't teach you much about politics in warp technology classes! But I know damn well when I'm bein' lied to by a connivin' bastard like V'Las, and if I take _Enterprise _away from here the next time we see T'Pol and the cap'n they'll be in caskets – if there's enough left of either of them to put in one!"

"Better two than eighty-plus," answered Malcolm, trying to keep his voice harsh. "They knew the risks."

Trip lifted his head and stared at him.

"How in hell did you get to be such a cold-hearted bastard, Malcolm?"

There was a small, tingling silence.

"I think I've finished my tea," he said. He put the cup down carefully. "I'll be on the Bridge if you need me, Commander. I dare say the Vulcan battle cruisers will be along shortly, and they might be rather rough. Pity Starfleet spent all the time and effort on repairing the ship, really, considering how long it lasted."

He stood up and walked to the door. As he pressed the control he heard Trip call him, but he ignored it. _Yes, I'm a cold-hearted bastard all right. Call all you like, Trip, you can go to hell. It's not like it's going to go on my records. I don't think any of us are going to live long enough for you to reach my personnel file._

His anger took him halfway to the turbo-lift.

Swearing under his breath used up another thirty seconds or so, and then he turned on his heel and walked back to the Mess Hall.

Trip was standing by one of the viewing ports, staring down at the baking red surface of Vulcan turning far below. The utter despair on his face made Malcolm catch his breath.

Tucker had lost so much. His kid sister, his home town, his friendship with Jon and finally the woman he loved. He was a good bloke, battered by blows he didn't deserve and couldn't handle. That was the problem with having a heart the size of an elephant's: there was more room on it for impact craters.

Cold-hearted bastards had it easy by comparison.

He wasn't good at speeches. Nor at much else that didn't involve explosions of one sort or another, come to that, but if this was going to be the last day of his life he wasn't going to go with regrets.

He crossed the Mess Hall with rapid strides and put an arm around Trip's shoulders.

He wasn't sure whether there would be resistance, but none came. The chief engineer didn't take his eyes from the planet, but he gave a little nod of acceptance and gratitude, blinking a few times.

"Malcolm – I –"

"I know. It's all right. Life's a bitch, as you Americans say."

"We sure got that right." He heaved a shaky sigh. "We'd better get to the Bridge. Like you said, those cruisers'll be along any minute at a guess."

"Look. About the – about what you asked me. Just go with your guts, mate. Bottom line, that's all anyone can do."

"Yeah. Trouble is, sittin' in the cap'n's chair doesn't give you the solutions; it just gives you the problems." Trip rubbed his forehead wearily. "Well, let's get up there and see what happens." He gave the inscrutable surface of Vulcan a last anguished stare and turned away.

Maybe the Captain and T'Pol were still alive down there. Maybe they were already dead. Maybe nobody on board would ever know how and when they'd died. The Vulcan government certainly wouldn't admit to anything as acutely embarrassing as the 'accidental killing' of Captain Jonathan Archer, the hero of the Expanse; though the demise of a lesser star in the firmament of legend could be smoothed away more easily, since she was one of their own. At a guess they'd both end up being proclaimed as victims of the Syrrannite conspiracy, murdered by the rebels – one more reason for the insurgency to be dealt with firmly and decisively. Wouldn't all Earth's inhabitants want due justice wreaked on the killers of the very people who'd saved them from the Xindi?

But if _Enterprise_ was destroyed in some one-sided battle, that version of events would go down as incontrovertible history. Nobody would be left alive to tell the truth. Starfleet certainly wouldn't argue with it. As for the fate of the ship herself, that would probably end up being smoothed away too, in the interests of diplomacy; the relationship with Vulcan was far too fragile and precious to be put at risk for a single starship and her mutinous crew. After all, Admiral Gardner had given the order to Commander Tucker to leave and he'd disobeyed it. What happened after that was entirely on his own blond head.

Quite possibly the Syrrannites could be conveniently blamed for that too. Some cock-and-bull story about hijacking a couple of cruisers and sneaking up on a blameless and unwary _Enterprise_; presumably one whose bridge crew were asleep and whose tactical officer didn't recognize the signs of weapons powering up on approaching ships, however supposedly friendly. What a tragic end for a noble ship and crew. God, it was enough to make you want to write a play about it.

The sound of their footsteps was loud in the corridor as the two officers walked quickly towards the turbo-lift. As they reached it, Malcolm glanced once at Trip. The American's face was now bleak, but resolute. His moment of indecision had passed. Whatever was to come, the Vulcan battle cruisers would find their would-be victim with a strong man in the captain's chair.

A strong man, with some terrible decisions to make_._

_And I bloody well don't envy him any of them._

* * *

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	84. Kir'shara

"This is one of the times when I could curse Starfleet regulations."

Hoshi bit her lip to keep back agreement as her lover rolled reluctantly out of the bunk and began pulling on his clothes. She hated it too – the fact that even now they had to keep their relationship a secret, had to sleep in separate quarters. One of the things she'd loved most about their brief return to Earth was the luxury of being able to fall asleep in his arms and wake to find herself still there. Outside the bedroom they'd still had to exercise a degree of caution, but they'd made the most of room service.

Trouble was, it had shown them too clearly what they'd been missing. And now they were back on board, they had to revert to business as usual.

Still, the alternative was to go for broke and announce their relationship. Which would probably mean they'd have to leave the ship, and after talking it over seriously they'd come to the conclusion that neither of them wanted to do that yet. So here they were again, communicating across the Bridge in code gestures to arrange when and where they'd meet up next, and sneaking in and out of each other's cabins at dead of night.

Malcolm sure had _that_ one nailed. Starfleet regulations really sucked sometimes.

His uniform properly in place, the lieutenant sat back down on the bunk to pull on his socks and boots. Halfway through this operation, however, he stopped and sighed heavily.

"I didn't exactly cover myself in glory today, did I?"

"What do you mean?" She'd rolled over into the space where he'd lain, because it held the feeling of him a little longer.

Another sigh. He looked down at his feet. "Trip was right. I was wrong."

"Well, yes." She wouldn't insult him by denying what events had proved. "But you had to call it the way you saw it. And you were the one who had to do the shooting in the fire-fight Trip got us into."

"I didn't achieve much there, either," he said bitterly. "Except get us into a situation Shran had to get us out of. And at the end, the only thing that saved us from being blown to smithereens was the captain getting the High Command to call their attack dogs off."

"Malcolm. We were outgunned over and over again. There was never any chance we could have done any better. Even I knew that. So obviously Trip did."

"I know. That's not what really bothers me." In the starlight she saw his shoulders droop. "I didn't act in a professional manner."

"WHAT?" She was so surprised she sat up.

"I'm not joking, Hoshi. I should have been reprimanded. I disputed the captain's decision."

"You were the acting XO. That was your job, if you thought he was wrong," she pointed out.

"I know. But if I disagree with the captain, if I feel that I have valid issues I should bring to his attention, I should do so in private. I did earlier on; at least I got the procedure right there, even if I was wrong – again. What I _shouldn't _have done was question his decision in front of everyone else. I was completely out of order and I got away with it. Captain Archer would have carpeted me, and I'd have deserved it too."

Frowning, she tried to recall the exact sequence of events. It was difficult; so much had happened that the details had tended to blur in her memory.

"I can't remember you arguing with Trip at all," she said at last.

"I can. I can even quote you the exact words I used as I got started. 'Are you sure this is wise?' For Christ's sake. In front of everybody, right at the start of a battle. You _never _let the lower ranks see the officers disagree. That goes back to the Middle bloody Ages tactical manuals, and I blew it."

"Oh, God. Open mutiny. I'm just surprised Trip didn't throw you in the brig and have you court-martialed." She threw her arms round him. "Malcolm, _will _you lighten up? Your job is to protect the ship. Over and above anything else. You had to say what you did."

"_What_ I did, maybe. _When_ I did, no. Hoshi, I was totally out of order!"

"Then if you think so, you should go apologize."

"I know Trip. He'll just shrug it off."

"Then perhaps you should too."

"I hardly think that's appropriate for what I did!"

"Right." She was rapidly coming around to thinking that dealing with Malcolm's conscience would have taxed King Solomon. "I have a suggestion. I'll make a copy of the relevant section of the security tapes, and when we get back to Vulcan and you have a chance to speak to the captain, show it to him. He won't be in a position to dismiss it. He'll give it a fair judgment."

"That's true." He sounded absurdly relieved. "Good idea."

"There's the plan then." Hoshi slapped him lightly between the shoulder blades. "Now let me check the coast's clear." She hopped out of bed and crossed to the door, with him close behind her. "Wow, I can tell you're feeling better already!"

"I'd defy any man not to feel better with this view in front of him." He kissed her ear. "You will remember to do that tape, won't you?"

"Of course I will." _Not that that'll do you any good, Malcolm, _she added to herself silently as the door closed behind him. The ship had taken some considerable damage during the exchange of fire between the Vulcan and Andorian fleets, and the security tapes had been among the victims of one of the power surges; she could remember having to reroute power through her board to a secondary data recording file, one of the minor dramas as the major one unfolded. As the comm officer, she'd made it her business to check the damage before her shift ended, and it had been fairly extensive; she was pretty sure that very little of the relevant section was still in existence. An official report to that effect was already on file, predating this conversation.

She walked back to her bunk, a smile spreading across her face at how thoroughly sheer fate had outmaneuvered the ship's tactical officer. There was still warmth among the blankets, and she snuggled into it, breathing in the lingering traces of the scent that belonged uniquely to the man she loved. Obviously she'd have to go through what was left of the recordings and make sure the relevant part _was_ among the casualties before she could relax completely – after all, she hadn't been checking for specifics when she reviewed it originally – but she was pretty certain already that it was. Whatever Malcolm had said (and she was sure she'd have noticed it if it had been anything really out of the ordinary), all that would be left would be verbal testimony. He might accuse himself, but it was highly unlikely that Trip or anyone else would back him up, at least as far as the severity of the offense was concerned; it was far more likely that Trip would claim to be unable to recall Malcolm saying anything out of the ordinary at all – especially if she just happened to mention to him beforehand what his junior officer had in mind. And Captain Archer was quite used to his Tactical Officer's urge for self-flagellation. All in all, it was unlikely to result in the public flogging, loss of rank and twenty years in jail that her fiancé undoubtedly felt appropriate.

He might suspect, but what could he prove?

Nothing!

* * *

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	85. Daedalus

"Sato to Commander Tucker!"

I don't have time to find out where Trip is at this moment. I can only hope he's not busy with Doctor Erickson, because I need him to leave whatever he's doing _right now. _And if he is tied up with the transporter modifications again, it's going to be damned hard to make him understand in tactful terms what's going on.

"Tucker." The lazy, relaxed tone of his voice says he's not concentrating especially on anything. Behind him I pick up the vibration of the warp engine. He's concentrating on that, of course, but that's what he does, waking or sleeping. And at least it means he's in Engineering, and I can talk to him.

"Please – can you meet me outside Sickbay? It's really urgent." I'd rather not have said that, but I need him to hurry, _hurry! _I try not to let my voice sound as panicky as I feel. There will be other people in Engineering too, and I know better than most how word gets around.

"With you in just a minute." And fortunately it's less than that before he comes pounding along the corridor, a look of intense concern on his face. "Hosh'? Are you okay?"

It takes all my self-control not to run to him and grab hold of his uniform for reassurance, but there are people passing who look curiously enough at us as it is, and I can't make this public knowledge. It soon may be, but right now it's a damage limitation exercise. So I wait till he reaches me and then I whisper, _"Trip, it's Malcolm."_

"Malcolm?" He puts his hands on my shoulders and stares around anxiously. Particularly in the direction of Sickbay, where Malcolm has so often ended up, to his and Phlox's mutual displeasure. "Is he hurt? I thought it was just Burrows ..."

"No. He just found out what happened. I was going in to get one of my boosters, and he ... he came out looking like he was going to _kill_ someone, and he said he'd asked Phlox. He said he was Burrows' head of department, he had a right to know ..."

"Sonofabitch." His hands tighten momentarily. "So what happened then?"

"He's gone to find the captain. Trip, please, you have to stop him!"

He stares. "Hoshi, he's probably already there!"

"Then follow him!" I'm giving orders to a senior officer, but I'm too frantic to care. He hadn't seen the way rage had bleached Malcolm's face to something I hardly recognized. Now I don't know what could happen if nobody intervenes.

And luckily, Trip responds. "I'll get him for ya, Hosh. But it may take a bit of talkin' him round. Trust me." Without another word he scoots off in the direction of the turbo-lift into which Malcolm had vanished.

The odds are good at this hour of the day that the captain will be on the Bridge. I can only hope that the combination of his authority and his diplomatic skills will have prevented a knock-down, drag-out quarrel in front of everyone; my lover isn't exactly in the mood to keep his mouth shut right now. He doesn't say much, but the losses in the Expanse hit him hard, especially those from his own department. At a guess, every one of them still weighs on his conscience – the men and women whose safety he was responsible for. And now another of them is dead, and I think it's too much for him to handle.

* * *

"Because your _old friend_ didn't tell the truth, one of my men is dead – _sir!"_

I don't think I've ever seen Malcolm so angry. He's almost shaking with rage as he stands opposite the captain.

After the original attack, Phlox ordered him to take half a day off duty, mainly because he was the one to see Burrows killed and from what I heard it wasn't a pretty sight. Not that the order went down too well, of course. At a guess Malcolm's seen a whole load of things a whole lot worse than that in his time, and I daresay he wasn't shy in telling Phlox that; but the doc can be really stubborn when he makes his mind up, and Malcolm was grounded whether he liked it or not.

At least till he found out what had happened. Once he had that information, no way was he going to stay quietly in his quarters.

It was Hoshi who commed me. Just as well really. I guess she'd had a go at stopping him, but when he gets into a state like this she might as well try to stop a photonic torpedo. He was armed, dangerous, and going for the top.

Well, I can understand that. Because I can understand how I'd feel if it'd been one of my men who died. None of us regard any member of our teams as dispensable, and this was such a stupid, pointless way to die. And it doesn't make me feel any better remembering how thrilled I was to find that Emory Erickson was coming on board. My hero from way back. A legend from Starfleet history.

But also, it turns out, a man not too worried about being a mite economical with the truth.

I reached the Bridge just as the cap'n emerged from a fight to the death with the morning's reports and found himself eye to eye with a barely-restrained homicidal maniac disguised as his weapons officer, requesting – no, _demanding _– to discuss something with him 'as a matter of the utmost urgency.'

Jon immediately and wisely decided that whatever was up with Malcolm, the best place for said discussion would be his Ready Room; he'd probably been expecting this little party, if not quite so soon. I'm not actually sure I was invited by either of them, but hell, I'm not sure Jon on his own would be able to cope if Malcolm lost control. And right now, he's not far from it. I can understand that the Ready Room was a wise choice by way of keeping things private, but it's also a damned hard place to get out of in a hurry if your weapons expert decides to murder you. I suppose I should be thankful Malcolm's not wearing a phase pistol, though he can kill just as well without one; at a guess it was a bit obvious someone'd have tried to take it off him, though I wouldn't have cared to be the guy who had to try.

"I'm sure Burrows' death was completely accidental, Lieutenant." The use of his rank is deliberate, I'm sure of it; an attempt to recall him to the fact that he's on duty and speaking to a superior officer. The cap'n will cut an awful lot of slack for a guy who's as justifiably upset as Malcolm is right now, but his patience isn't inexhaustible.

"No, sir!" The retort nearly snaps his face off. "_'Accidental'_ doesn't involve wilful withholding of information. This was therefore not an accident!"

I think it's time to step in. "Malcolm, don't tell me you think Dr. Erickson actually thought he'd be endangerin' anyone on the ship by bringin' us here!"

The twin lasers swing to cover me. "If he was capable of wilful misappropriation of a whole bloody starship, which should get him twenty years in jail at the minimum, I'm not prepared to say what else he'd be capable of!"

The door chime goes at that moment. I can hardly imagine any point less opportune for an interruption, but it might be important. Signaling Malcolm to be quiet for just a moment, and asking permission of Jon with a glance, I hit the door control.

Danica's standing outside. Just about the last person I'd have been expecting, and right now just about the last person who needs to hear what Malcolm has to say. Ordinarily the presence of a civilian, and a lady to boot, would shut him up like a clam, but she's part of all this, part of the parcel of lies that's lost him a crewman. I can't guarantee he'll keep his mouth shut on things she doesn't deserve.

"Ahh, Dani, this isn't the best time…."

"I'm looking for a Lieutenant Reed," she says, with that straight look of hers. Strangely, she's carrying herself differently: like a burden's been lifted off her shoulders. Maybe it has. A burden of wondering and waiting, and of not having a body to put in a grave. I know how the last one hurts, and I realize suddenly that she's strong enough to face Malcolm.

"He's in here." The invitation is implicit, and she walks in. Jon makes a sudden movement of protest, but stops.

He's the only one of the three of us she doesn't know. She stops in front of him and meets his eyes, absorbing all that pain and anger that he doesn't try to hide.

"I came to say sorry," she says, with this lovely simple dignity. "Sorry your crewman died, Lieutenant. And sorry for all the lies we told the captain and Commander Tucker. But if you loved somebody like my father and I loved Quinn, I'd like to think you'd want to get him back, just like we did. Even if it's only to bury."

He stares at her in frowning silence; he's not ready to give anybody absolution yet.

She takes a deep breath, and plows on. "I know it's not going to change anything – that I'm sorry. I know we shouldn't have done it. If we'd known, if we'd thought for a _moment_ that anyone would be hurt, we wouldn't have even tried. But the thought of Quinn out there … maybe knowing where he was, maybe wondering why we weren't bringing him home … we couldn't bear it."

"I can understand that." His voice is quiet. It's like watching a lion-tamer at work. Mesmerizing.

"I believe you'll be expected to send a message to his family. I'd be grateful," she takes a data chip out of her pocket and proffers it, "if you'd include that. It's from me and my father. They deserve an apology from us too."

"I will." He takes it and puts it into his own pocket. "Thank you."

Not a lion-tamer. A snake-charmer. Five minutes ago he was a spitting cobra, ready to sink his fangs into anyone, and now he's retracted his hood and retreated into his basket. I still wouldn't care for my chances if he's prodded, but the quietness is something we can handle.

"Now, if you don't mind, I have to get back to Dad. I don't like leaving him on his own for long just yet. He … we've spent fifteen years working to get Quinn back. It just wasn't supposed to end like this. At least, not as far as Dad was concerned. I guess I never had as much faith in happy endings."

Malcolm nods. "I'll walk you back to him, if you'll allow me."

"I'd be delighted." Then, damned if he doesn't offer her his arm and she puts her fingers on it ever so lightly, and they walk out of the Ready Room together. The stairs are too narrow to let them go side by side, so he lets her precede him with that stiff British politeness he does so well, but at a guess they'll be together again as they walk to the turbo-lift. Maybe neither of them will find much more to say, but there are more ways to communicate than talking, and more ways to heal than stitching.

There's a little silence when they've gone.

"I'm not sure I know what just happened," I say at last.

"Dani's a remarkable woman," the cap'n says with a tired little smile.

Jeez, Jon. Tell me something I hadn't noticed, will you?

"Guess I'd better get back to Engineerin'." And at a guess there's a comm officer who could do with having her mind put at rest. Though maybe it'll be for the best if she doesn't catch an eyeful of her _significant other_ walking another woman down the corridor with the stateliness of an Earl or something. Would she mind? I don't know. I guess she knows by now that appearances aren't what they seem. And if there's anyone on the ship you could trust, that man is Malcolm Reed.

We all know that.

* * *

**All reviews and comments appreciated!**


	86. Observer Effect

_Where's Malcolm? Why doesn't he come to me?_

Hoshi lay on the bunk in Decon, wondering whether she'd said the words aloud. Somehow it didn't seem that important. Trip knew, the captain knew, Phlox almost certainly knew, and the only other person likely to be in Sickbay and able to overhear the conversation via the comm was T'Pol. If she found out it could be awkward, but then given the way things were going it might not be awkward for very much longer.

The thought terrified her, but she wasn't lucid for all of the time now anyway. And she wasn't sure if the thought of dying wasn't better than going on feeling worse and worse the way she was.

"Hoshi?"

"Gosh, Trip, I'm sorry if I woke you."

"No problem. I wasn't asleep." He propped himself up on one elbow and peered at her. The sweaty, waxen pallor of his face told her how bad her own must look. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing that Malcolm wasn't here right now after all.

But still, he should have come to talk to her, should have come to give her some comfort. Why hadn't he? Was it because of Trip's inhibiting presence? She could imagine that he'd be intensely uncomfortable discussing anything personal in front of his superior officer, but in the circumstances surely he could make an effort? He didn't have to say anything much. Just to see him, to know he cared ... oh, of course he cared, she believed that implicitly, but she needed him to give her courage. And perhaps just to say goodbye ...

"You're worryin' why Malcolm hasn't been to see ya," said Tucker quietly.

Time was when she'd have blushed, have prevaricated, but she hadn't the energy. "A little bit," she whispered.

"I can make a guess." He reached out and touched her hand lightly. "I don't think he'd be able to cope with the idea of you bein' so sick."

"You think so?" It was plausible, more than plausible; a veteran of Sickbay himself, her fiancé certainly wouldn't go there voluntarily. She knew, moreover, that his helplessness in the current situation would tear at him like steel claws in the gut. But in the beginning, when they were still under the impression that it was just another of those alien microbes that the doc would find a cure for in half an hour or so, _then_ he could have shown up, just to look concerned and chivvy Phlox about a bit ...

... why hadn't he?

"I want to see him," she muttered, despising herself for the weakness. "I want ... I want to say..."

"'Gee, lover boy, is that a phase pistol in your pants or are you pleased to see me?'" suggested Trip.

"Trip Tucker, if we get through this I am so going to slap you." Right now she hadn't the energy to lift her hand, let alone slap him, however thoroughly he deserved it.

She shifted position slightly, trying to get comfortable, feeling a wave of sweat break out across her body.

_Why _hadn't he come? It couldn't be that he didn't care.

Consciousness drifted away again for a while, till a sudden thought came to her that made her nauseous with fear. Was he sick too? Had he somehow contracted the virus himself, through contact with one of the other landing parties? Was he lying unconscious in his cabin or in some out-of-the-way place where his collapse might not be noticed?

Her head spun. Another wave of sweat broke over her. They wouldn't tell her if he was sick. They wouldn't want her to have the additional stress. He would have come if he'd been able to. He'd have dragged himself off his deathbed if it was something ordinary. But he wouldn't have endangered the crew. He'd make both of them die alone if the alternative was spreading the virus.

She had to find him. She had to tell someone. If he'd fallen, if he was sick, they wouldn't know. She had to get out, had to find him. _I need to tell them while there's still time._

"Hoshi?" Trip stared at her as she lurched upright. The effort almost made her vomit, but she had to do this. She had to. The captain... the others... they didn't know about Malcolm being sick. This realization, combined with the terror of being locked in, overwhelmed her. She had to get out.

_She had to._

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	87. Babel One

They're gone.

They're both gone, and we don't know where. The two of them – and without them the ship is as quiet as a tomb.

You'd think I've got enough on my plate, trying to hold two warring factions apart. Both of whom are completely convinced the other is trying to sabotage peace talks that Starfleet desperately wants to see succeed. Somebody sure is, but who or why is beyond me. Both the Tellarites and the Andorians sound genuine enough in their indignation, but nobody gets to be an ambassador without learning to fake pretty well anything, and Shran has a hair-trigger at the best of times. Finding out that the ship who rescued what's left of his crew has a complement of Tellarite passengers was never going to sweeten his temper – not when he claims it was Tellarites who attacked the _Kumari_ and blew it to hell.

So the only way to keep the peace is to lock all of them up, safely at a distance from each other, till we can get more information on what's going on. Getting Trip and Malcolm onto that 'nautilus' ship was a stroke of luck – at least, till it apparently woke up to our presence and started knocking hell out of us as well. So with our transporter down we had to run like blazes, leaving my two officers aboard it. And now I've all the Universe to start looking for them in.

Great.

I've come down to grab a coffee and stretch my legs. I was going stir crazy up there in the Ready Room, going over and over the scanner logs and trying to find an explanation that fits all the facts. There are a couple of Engineering staff in the Mess, and I can feel their eyes on me. _Have we found him, sir? Is he gonna be okay? _They don't want to ask; maybe they're afraid of the answers.

God, I wish I had some answers. Any answers. Even to the question of_ will we ever see them again? _Two women up on the Bridge need an answer to that. T'Pol hides a lot behind that Vulcan façade of hers, but she's stiff with tension. For all the times she and Trip have bickered like a pair of school kids, there's something, some kind of understanding between them; you can see it with your eyes shut. And I've never understood what happened about that marriage of hers. I know Trip came back from the trip to Vulcan like he was sleepwalking and wanted to wake up, but couldn't. And now she's had that message from Koss saying the marriage is officially over. What's going to happen there now, if we get him back? I wish I knew. Or perhaps I'm glad I don't.

As for Hoshi, it's like looking at a ghost sitting at the comm station. A ghost with constantly moving fingers, changing all the settings over and over, listening to every burst of static and every tiny flicker in the background radiation of the Universe. Listening for the smallest sound that might be a fragment of a cry for help. The only time I've seen her anything like this was when we were racing towards Shuttlepod 1 that time the micro-singularities hit it, but this is worse. If T'Pol's theory is right, that ship could be heading towards Romulan space – and what little we know about the Romulans isn't good. If they get hold of two Starfleet officers with the technical and strategic knowledge that Trip and Malcolm have between them, the outlook is pretty damned bleak. I'm sure that both of them know their duty is not to allow that to happen, and that if it's at all possible they won't let it. However, that particular line of thought isn't pleasant. Maybe they'll be able to burrow into the nautilus's command protocols enough to initiate a self-destruct. If they don't ... well, they're both armed.

I want to talk to her about it. I feel so responsible for her being here, for her being in this position. I talked her into it, I'm the reason she's here at all instead of being safely back home in South America with her students and her nice safe job at the Uni. Maybe up till now she's felt it's had its compensations, but right now she's paying in blood for being unwise enough to fall in love.

Maybe that's partly my fault as well. Maybe I should have done my damnedest to stop it as soon as I found out, though what a mere ship's captain is supposed to do about two people falling in love when they see each other day in, day out I don't know. But I didn't. I wanted them to have a little happiness, because there was precious little going right then when we were in pursuit of that Xindi weapon, and now I have to sit here and watch Hoshi dying like a flower out of water right in front of me.

Uh, talk of the devil. At a guess she's here because T'Pol's ordered her to take a break. There's a sort of frozen anger in the way she strides to the beverage dispenser. Her shoulders as she waits for the drink to pour out are so stiff that I think if anyone touched them she'd shatter from the shock.

She turns around and looks to see who else is here. More for the sake of avoiding anyone who'd try to engage her in small talk, at a guess. When you feel like Hoshi does now, you don't want to listen to ship's scuttlebutt about who cheated who at cards the night before.

I catch her eye, more by accident than anything else. I try to keep my expression just a bit inviting, so she doesn't feel pressured; as close as I can make it to _I'm here if you want to talk. _Though maybe I'm the last person she wants to talk to anyway. I sent Trip and Malcolm to that ship. I gave the order to get our butts away from it. Now I'm the man in charge of a Starfleet ship who can't find the missing officers who may be half way to Romulus now; who may have had to shoot each other to protect Starfleet's interests. 'Just peachy,' as Trip would say.

She definitely hesitates. I suppose I should count my blessings that she doesn't turn and walk away out of the Mess altogether. But after that long hesitation she walks across and puts her drink down on the table opposite me.

"Sir, do you think we're going to find them?" she asks. And there's no inflection in her tone at all; none.

Oh, how I long to lie. Long to give her some comfort, some hope. But right now I haven't any for myself, let alone for anyone else. We're back into Xindi territory as far as optimism goes; and on top of the constant fear for my missing officers, my missing _friends_, I have a seemingly impossible mission to complete – to try, somehow, to reconcile two species who've feared and distrusted each other for over a century. Not that that's a responsibility, of course. Piece of cake for Jonathan Archer, the guy who can walk on water. Yeah, sure.

"We're doing our best, Hoshi." I make my voice as gentle as I can. Like I'm telling her something she might not already have noticed.

Has it got through, achieved anything? I can't tell. Her face is blank, like she's still got her earpiece in and is listening to something I can't hear. I'm not sure if she's looking at me or through me.

"I need to get back on duty," she says flatly.

"You need to rest." She's pulled a double shift already. Adrenaline can only carry you so far. If she doesn't give herself a break her brain might get so punch-drunk she actually might not hear that one tiny sound she's waiting for.

"I can't."

"Then go to Phlox and get him to give you something to help you sleep. That's an order, Ensign." I point to her untasted green tea. "As soon as you've drunk that."

Her eyes flare resentfully at me, but she sits down and starts sipping at the tea. She doesn't look at me again.

After a silence that endures for the couple of minutes it takes her to finish, she puts down her cup and stands up. I don't waste my time asking if she's eaten. I know she hasn't. Nor will she, till there's some resolution – one way or the other. For an undoubtedly lovely woman, she looks pale and hollow-eyed, almost as bad as she did when Hayes brought her back from the Reptilian ship; Malcolm wouldn't thank me for looking after her so poorly, though what the heck I could do to change things I don't know.

"Sickbay," I remind her levelly. "You need at least four hours' sleep before you set foot on the Bridge again."

"Yes, sir." She moves to walk past me, but I catch her hand, almost without intending to. I don't even know what I want to say, just that I want to reach out somehow across that gulf between us.

And now she's so close, I catch just a trace of a scent I don't normally associate with Hoshi. It's spicy, like pine needles. I wouldn't even have known until now that it's Malcolm's aftershave, a scent that I've caught even without noticing it on any of a hundred occasions when we've been in close proximity here or there about the ship. The realization that she's wearing it instead of her own perfume brings a lump to my throat; it's too easy to predict that after she's had her shot from Phlox she'll curl up on her bunk with something Malcolm's worn and fall asleep cuddling it. I'm ashamed to realize that I'm actually envious of him; envious of one of my officers who may not even be alive by now.

"Don't give up on them, Hoshi." I force words past the lump. "They're remarkable men. Starfleet's best."

"I already knew that, sir." She disengages gently but firmly. "I'll see you in four hours."

And she will – four hours and as long as it takes her to shower and dress. Not eat. She'll eat when they're back. Not before; not unless. If it goes on too long then Phlox and I will have to take matters in hand, but right now I know that coercion isn't an option if I don't want her to break in my hands.

I watch her walk out. She turns left, towards Sickbay, with a military resolution that's like an echo. She'll cope, because he'd want her to stay professional, and because she's matured into a strong, brave woman as well as a beautiful one. Yes, I do envy him. I envy anyone who's so obviously loved. But the full cost of that singular privilege has yet to be revealed.

It could be higher than I want to imagine.

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	88. United

"Please come in."

I look up from my meditation cushion, though I do not rise immediately. I have initiated this visit, in what I can only describe to myself as a moment of weakness; for a moment I almost decide to tell Hoshi that her presence is not required after all, that I am too busy to talk, and that there will perhaps be a more suitable time for the discussion I proposed.

But that would be untrue, so I stay silent and rise, out of respect for a visitor, even though she is a human and a junior officer.

After all, we are sisters in situation. Both waiting helplessly for news that does not come, both doing our best to contribute to a struggle that every moment seems more fruitless.

"Please sit down," I say, and point to the cushion opposite mine. Trip sat on it during many of our neuropressure sessions. She folds up more gracefully than he did. She is always very graceful in her movements.

I have difficulty in deciding what to say next. Vulcans are not used to indulging in 'heart-to-heart talks,' as I believe humans call such things. But then, few Vulcans would be reckless enough to allow themselves to become addicted to Trellium-D. Phlox warned me – kindly, but clearly – that emotions would be something I would have to learn to deal with as part of the payment for my actions. For my weakness and stupidity, he could have said, but he is too kind for that.

She is looking puzzled by my hesitation, so I plunge in.

"I hope you are not allowing yourself to become over-tired by the hours you are working. Shift patterns are designed to achieve optimal operating efficiency."

This is not what I had meant to say. I wish to achieve some sense of fellow-feeling, not to make her feel she is being criticized for her efforts.

"I'm fine," she answers, pushing back a strand of hair that has escaped from its normal tidiness at some point during the day.

She is not 'fine.' I can see that. Her exhaustion and frustration mirror my own, and she has had far less training and practice at controlling and concealing them than I have. But how telling, that she has used that particular word.

"You are concerned for their safety. In particular, that of Lieutenant Reed."

Color washes into her face. I am not supposed to be aware of the fact that they have a relationship, and in fairness to them both I probably would not have been but for the fact that my V'Shar training has made me particularly observant. Occasionally I have been close enough to one or the other of them to notice that their pupils enlarge when they lock eyes. It is an involuntary response, but a revealing one.

Strangely enough, it happens when Commander Tucker meets my eyes too. It has been particularly evident ever since that evening when … when I allowed myself to act without fully considering the consequences. For both of us.

I had no idea that he would imbue the occasion with as much significance as he did. I had always been under the impression that his liaisons were fleeting and inconsequential. I allowed myself to believe that as far as he was concerned, this would be just another of the same.

In that, I misjudged him utterly.

"I care about what happens to both of them," she says levelly, at length.

"Ensign. I have not asked you to come here in order to pass judgment on your relationship. You are both conducting yourself in a professional manner, and as long as that continues to be the case I perceive no reason to interfere."

"The captain knows about it. That was pretty much what he said." There is a sense of defensive guards being lowered, at least somewhat; her posture remains tense.

I nod. This is entirely in keeping with Captain Archer's occasionally somewhat relaxed attitude towards regulations. This attitude would not be appropriate on board a Vulcan ship, but it has to be admitted that it has fostered a degree of contentment aboard _Enterprise. _

"I concur. I believe that you and the lieutenant are able to maintain separation between your personal and professional lives." I swallow. "I – I am in a position to … understand the difficulty you are experiencing."

She blinks. It takes perhaps half a minute for her to understand what I am trying to say. Her eyes widen.

"You mean you … you and _Trip?"_

I nod again. It is too difficult for me to say anything.

Fortunately, Hoshi takes the initiative. She moves the meditation candle carefully to one side, and then – much to my surprise – she hugs me.

I am not quite sure how to respond, but it will be ungracious not to do anything. Tentatively I put my arms around her in return. It feels strange, but it is surprisingly agreeable. There is no logical reason whatsoever for the sense of comfort I receive from it; Trip is still missing, and fear for him still grips me like a vise. But there is no doubt that this sudden odd sense of fellowship will be a source of strength to both of us in however many hours or days lie ahead before we can find the Romulan ship and rescue the men for whom we care so much.

"We _will_ get them back," she whispers.

"I'm sure of it," I reply. In actual fact I am nothing of the kind, but there is a fierce defiance in saying it that feels like hoisting a pennant against the wind. It is not logical, but it feels agreeable. More than agreeable, in fact.

As Trip would say, _It feels good._

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	89. The Aenar

_Nobody home yet. Still, I'm sure he'll be here soon. With any luck, he's just taking extra fuel on board. _

Hoshi slipped her leisure clothes off and slid into the bunk. She was tingling with anticipation. She'd seen the look of vengeful triumph on Malcolm's face as the ship's photonic torpedoes blew the second drone ship to Kingdom Come, and hadn't been at all surprised to later intercept a whisper in which quite another sort of full spread had been mentioned. They'd been passing each other in the Mess Hall at the time so she hadn't been able to respond, and as they were seated at different tables she'd had to force herself to pay attention to what had been said at her own, and not so much glance in his direction. But the time ever since had seemed to pass on feet of lead, and she'd never been so thankful when the clock told her it was time to make her way to his cabin.

She burrowed into his bedding, inhaling the scent of clean cotton mixed with the faint, familiar, excitingly male smell of his body and the after-shave he used. It was slightly surprising that he wasn't here to meet her; punctuality was one of his obsessions, and she was sure he must be as famished as she was herself. After waiting for so very long since lunch, it was a little unkind of fate to make her wait even longer now. And if this was _his _fault, she'd make him pay for it. She'd make him wait at least ten seconds before checking his weapon was fully armed. Which, of course, it would be, but they both enjoyed her making absolutely sure.

But the minutes passed, and when he still didn't appear she began to feel the first prickling of worry. She picked up her chronometer from on top of the heap of clothes on the floor and checked it. No – he was more than ten minutes late. For an obsessive like Malcolm Reed, that was virtually a cardinal sin. Any minute now he'd dive in through the door, explaining that the captain had thought of something that needed to be discussed among the senior staff and that couldn't possibly wait till tomorrow, and pulling off his clothes in such unseemly haste to make amends that he wouldn't even stop to fold them up and put them neatly on the chair.

She indulged herself in this unlikely fantasy for another ten minutes. At the end of which, she was convinced that something really serious must have happened, and she had just swung her legs out of bed and sat up, ready to get her clothes back on, when the door finally opened and Malcolm came in.

Her first wild uprush of relief and indignation and excitement was killed instantly by the look on his face.

"What's wrong?" she asked, frozen with dread.

He stopped just inside the door, and stared at her blankly.

"Trip's leaving," he said.

She blinked, sure she must have misheard him.

"I'm sorry...?"

"Trip. He's put in a request for a transfer to _Columbia_, and the captain has authorised it."

"_Columbia_?"

No wonder he was looking shell-shocked. Over the course of the mission, Trip Tucker had done more than anything else to thaw the icy Tactical Officer who'd come on board at the start of it; she knew that nobody had ever become as close a friend to him, and nobody stood higher in his estimation (except, perhaps, Captain Archer, who was as close as the Englishman acknowledged to a God.) The news that he had suddenly decided to up and leave for another ship could not be less than shattering. It was terrible to her too, but she had other friends, even if nobody could ever quite fill the place that Trip occupied on the ship and in her heart. Malcolm, on the other hand, had almost no-one. He quite liked Travis, but he and Trip had forged an extraordinarily close working relationship based on mutual respect and affection. This news must have fairly torn his heart out.

But how could it possibly be that the captain had authorized it? Had the two quarreled? Their relationship had never been the same since the Expanse, but she hadn't dreamed it could have taken such damage as this suggested.

"You've talked to him?" she asked, drawing him down to sit beside her on the bed.

"Yes. He thought ... he thought I ought to hear it first-hand." He spoke stiffly, as though forcing the words out.

She took hold of his hand, which lay unresponsive in hers. His eyes stared straight ahead, glassy gray pools of shock and bewilderment.

"I thought he was joking when he told me," he said softly. "Then I realized he meant it. He's leaving, Hoshi."

"But _why?_" The sight of his pain ignited a hot rage inside her. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to grab hold of Trip Tucker and bang his head against a bulkhead till she could knock some sense into it. Leave _Enterprise_, and the crew who'd become his second family – why the heck would he even contemplate such a thing? And what would his leaving do to T'Pol?

Then realization hit her, almost in the same instant as Malcolm breathed the name in despair. T'Pol. Perpetually in view, perpetually unattainable; the tension between them of late had taken on a quite different quality to the original slightly hostile air of their relationship at the start of the voyage, or the almost playful friendship that had slowly developed to replace it. The playfulness, of course, had been mostly on Trip's side, but the First Officer had definitely responded to it. Since his return from Vulcan he'd been withdrawn and humorless, reverting almost to the perpetually angry man who'd lived for nothing but vengeance on the Xindi after the attack on Earth; and since her return to the ship a couple of weeks later, the few exchanges between them had acquired a bite that was painful to witness. Instead of seeking her out, he'd actively avoided her. He never even looked at her unless he had to. To anyone who knew him, he was exhibiting all the signs of a man caught up in feelings beyond his control, and he was not a person who did anything by half-measures. Once his love was given, it was given with both hands. And once committed, he could no more have stopped caring than he could have torn his heart out of his chest and dropped it down the waste recycling chute.

That the Vulcan returned Trip's feelings in some way was indisputable; she'd privately admitted as much to Hoshi. That she returned them _in the same way_ was more problematic. It appeared that something had precipitated a crisis.

"I tried to talk him out of it. He wouldn't listen," her lover went on now in quiet hopelessness. "I know he's had it bad. Has for a long time. I can almost sympathise – putting myself in his place, if I had to see you every day and could never have you, never love you, I don't know how I could bear it now. Maybe I'd leave too, I don't know.

"But it's not just that. The ship needs him. We won't find anyone nearly as good as he is if we search till the next generation leaves the yards." He put his head in his hands. "Erika Hernandez must think it's bloody Christmas, Easter and her birthday for the next twenty years rolled into one."

"Maybe he'll change his mind," was all Hoshi could think of to say.

"No. I know Trip. Once he's made his mind up he won't change it."

"But if T'Pol asks him?"

"Well. For that, maybe." He laughed bitterly. "But short of that or some other minor miracle, you, me and _Enterprise_ can kiss goodbye to Commander Charles Tucker the Third."

And they sat on together in mournful silence.

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	90. Affliction, Part 1: Hoshi

**Author's note: This episode has so much potential for agony for my favourite couple that I decided to make two Missing Scenes out of it. I hope those who have been kind enough to say they're looking forward to it will feel it's been worth the wait!**_  
_

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_The scanner must be wrong_.

Hoshi re-set the controls and examined the results again; but stare as she might, she couldn't make the results make any more sense.

"This has been deliberately wiped," she said, puzzled. "Since it came on board."

"That is not possible." T'Pol looked across at her. "Lieutenant Reed handed it to me himself. There was no reason for him to have entrusted it to anyone else since he brought it aboard."

"Well, it's definitely recent." She checked the results for a third time. "The last modification was about an hour before we introduced the algorithm."

The two women looked at each other. It had taken them just under an hour to create the appropriate algorithm; not only had it required a certain amount of trial and error, but they'd had to carry out minor repairs to the electronics of the black box to allow it to function. The damage it had sustained was a little surprising, given that it had been securely protected inside the freighter, but Malcolm had said a lucky shot must have caught the circuits.

T'Pol reached over and took the scanner. Wordlessly she repeated the test, frowned, and re-calibrated the device. "It has been wiped by a microdyne coupler." More key adjustments. "The signature is unmistakable. If I access the ship's internal scanners, we can find out where the coupler itself is now, and that may give us some guidance as to who was responsible."

"Why don't we just ask Lieutenant Reed who else could have had access to ..." Hoshi's voice trailed off at T'Pol's expression. "Wait, you..."

"I would prefer to discover the whereabouts of the coupler before speculating," said T'Pol gently after a long moment.

Hoshi stood up, although it felt as though her knees were trembling too hard to hold her steady. "You don't think _Malcolm...?"_

"If the coupler is still on the ship, its location will be informative. It may even have DNA traces on it that may," the Vulcan took a deep breath, "may reveal who handled it last." She hadn't used the word _exonerate_, but it echoed around the small room where they'd been working on the black box from the Rigelian freighter.

"He didn't. I won't believe it." Her voice was shaking too, and it was too loud.

"Ensign." The brown eyes were compassionate. "We need to investigate properly. I would be reluctant to accuse anyone on board, and certainly not an officer who has given the ship such loyal service as Mister Reed, without incontrovertible proof. But no matter who is guilty, we need to discover his or her identity without delay." She reactivated the computer screen that was at the side of the desk they'd been working at, and keyed in her command codes.

Hoshi sat down again, mainly because now her knees certainly wouldn't hold her up. A maelstrom of terrified thoughts whirled around and around in her head. Malcolm? Interfere with an investigation? Lie to the captain? Falsify information? Betray _Phlox _in the Denobulan's hour of greatest need?

_He wouldn't do it,_ her thoughts screamed. _Not Malcolm. He's the last man on the ship who'd do a thing like that. _A score of memories darted through her mind: Malcolm taken aback when she'd first kissed him in the turbo-lift, Malcolm eating oden rather than offend her by telling her he hated it, Malcolm eating pineapple cake in Sickbay, Malcolm making love to her in the Observation Lounge; Malcolm and Trip bickering over extra power for the Armory, Malcolm teasing Travis in the Mess, Malcolm mangling Spanish curses Em had tried to teach him, Malcolm complaining in Sickbay that Phlox was treating him like a six-year-old, Malcolm pinned to the hull by a Romulan mine while Captain Archer struggled to save him, Malcolm smirking when the chess knight went _click _into place opposite her beleaguered king, Malcolm snarling at the mere mention of Major Hayes, Malcolm slipping the ring on to her finger and looking down at it... Malcolm, in bed with her the night Captain Archer shot and killed the last Augment. Hearing her say '_perhaps you were good in a previous life.' _The look on his face. _'I think we can rule that out.'_

"I have located it in Storage Locker C-14." T'Pol's voice seemed to come from a great distance. "We should retrieve it at once."

"Does it say who accessed it last?" she whispered. But she already knew. _I think we can rule that out._

The very lack of an answer was answer in itself. The ship's Executive Officer simply looked at her steadily.

The microdyne coupler was still in Storage Locker C-14, small and innocuous, lying there as though shoved into hiding by someone in too much panic haste to be rid of it. There was no DNA on it. He was the ship's Tactical Officer. He would never have made such an elementary error.

"Can I ... can I go to the Bridge?" _I have to see him. I have to._

"You must not speak to him, Ensign. This is now a matter for the captain."

"I know. I won't." She drew a deep, steadying breath. "We can ... we can pretend we're checking something on the comm station. Please."

She expected a refusal, but after a moment T'Pol nodded. Of course, any reaction from the suspect could be useful. Strictly speaking there was no reason for Hoshi to return to the Bridge, since her shift was officially finished, but they were pursuing an important matter; she might well have decided that the hunt for the truth was too important to abandon. Especially given what it now appeared to have turned up.

They took the coupler with them. Just in case it might mysteriously 'disappear.'

The journey in the turbo-lift was utterly unreal; she could see him opposite her, submitting in pleased embarrassment to Trip's congratulatory hug_. 'You don't know anything, sir.'_

Hoshi stepped out into the Bridge as though trying to remember how to walk. She got herself somehow to her station. Her fingers did something to the keys, though she had no idea what it was; she could have sent out a transmission declaring war on the Klingon Empire, for all she knew. T'Pol stood behind her silently.

She had to look. Her eyes were dragged across the Bridge as though on chains.

He was at the Tactical Station. Seated there exactly as usual, cool and collected. But he wasn't watching her. He was watching T'Pol, and there was a shadow on his face she'd never seen before.

"Analysis confirmed, Sub-commander," said Hoshi in a voice that didn't seem to belong to her at all.

"Then I suggest we inform the captain of our findings without delay," answered T'Pol. "He is waiting for our report in his Ready Room."

The short walk across the Bridge to the Ready Room was a hundred kilometres long. She couldn't look at him. She couldn't even feel the pain. She was just numb, dazed, disbelieving. Malcolm wasn't a traitor. _There had to be an explanation; there had to be!_

But she could feel his eyes on her every step of the way, and as she drew level with him she couldn't help it. She looked.

He just looked back at her. His face was a marble mask. Only the eyes in it were alive, and full of horror.

She thought of Phlox, being brutally attacked in that San Francisco street; the kindest, most harmless man she'd ever known. Where was he now? What was happening to him? _Malcolm, what have you done?_

T'Pol's fingers hit the chime.

Archer responded immediately. He'd want anything that could give them a lead; anything.

_Anything_ _at all._

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	91. Affliction, Part 2: Malcolm

**Author's note: ... the agony goes on!**

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There was a kind of peace in despair.

Lieutenant Reed stared at the wall of the Brig and blinked back the shameful tears that he hadn't wanted Captain Archer to see welling in his eyes.

_Traitor!_

The contempt in the blazing hazel eyes had been unbearable. _"You've betrayed everything that uniform stands for."_

It was over. Everything he cared about was over. Trip had gone, his career was history and he'd be lucky to get fewer than ten years in prison for this, though at this present moment that was the very least of his concerns.

He'd lied to his captain – looked him in the face and lied to him, and thereby betrayed a trust that had been absolute. He knew that before today, Archer would have taken his part against any accuser without a second thought. Well, that was over too. Malcolm Reed, liar and traitor, was exposed and condemned. Jonathan Archer, deceived where he'd most trusted, could neither comprehend the incomprehensible nor forgive the unforgivable. He could not. He should not. He would not.

The countermeasures he'd had to take against discovery were not enough to save him indefinitely; in his heart of hearts he hadn't wanted them to be. It was only to be hoped that nobody would notice that by the standards he'd learned in the Section they were pitiful, practically leading a trail to his door. He'd done what he'd had to; he'd delayed the ship and allowed the kidnappers to escape. Now he'd wanted only the axe above his head to finally fall and have done with it, so that he would no longer be a tool aboard _Enterprise_ that Harris could use at will.

_"Their tradition of honor and service." _A tradition he'd sworn to uphold as his family's menfolk had for generations, disregarding the fact that the ship he served in sailed among the stars instead of across Earth's oceans. And by the bitterest irony, he was actually doing so. Nobody but he and Harris would ever be aware of that fact, however. As far as the rest of Starfleet would be concerned – as far as his family would be concerned – he was that lowest of the loathsome: a traitor to his ship. He'd told the captain he didn't know what his father would make of hearing that he was to be court-martialled; that wasn't exactly the truth either, but perhaps lying was becoming a habit. He had a very good idea what his father would make of it. _I always knew the boy was a damned weakling, but I didn't think even he'd sink to this. _There would be no word of support. There would _be_ no support. He would be alone. They would never refer to him again. If he ever so far mistook his value as to write to any member of his family, his letters would be destroyed unopened. Stuart Reed would see to that.

The outer door of the brig opened. He didn't turn, or even look around. It would only be some MACO bringing him food, and right now he couldn't care if he never ate again.

"Malcolm?"

_Oh, Christ, no!_ He almost shrieked the words aloud as the familiar, beloved voice spoke. For pity's sake, couldn't the captain have kept her away, kept her out of this? What had she done to be put through the mill? Nothing, nothing at all, except fall in love with the wrong man. A man who'd thought he could outrun his past, escape his darkness, and forget an older loyalty than _Enterprise _and Captain Jonathan Archer.

"Go away, Hoshi." He spoke into his up-drawn knees, hugging them desperately. "Don't talk to me. Just get out of here."

"Malcolm, this has to be a mistake." Her voice was raw with tears; the sound of it lacerated him. _Don't cry, Hoshi, please don't cry, not for me, I'm not worth it. _ "They're saying you're a traitor, but I know you're not. You're protecting somebody, I know you are. Tell them the truth. For God's sake, tell them the truth!"

"It IS the truth!" It emerged as an almost animal howl. "Hoshi, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm a lying bastard, and I should never have laid a finger on you. Just get the hell out of here and forget you ever met me!"

"MALCOLM!" She was hammering on the glass and screaming at him. "You're not a traitor, you're not, you're not! I won't believe it!"

The sound of her desperate and misplaced devotion broke him. He spun around with the despised tears washing down his face, and kicked away the last hope of happiness he had.

"Then you're wrong, Hoshi. I'm a liar. I'm a traitor. I concealed evidence. I misled my senior officers. I misdirected an investigation that could have rescued a doctor who's saved my life more times than I care to remember. I'm going to be court-martialled and when it happens I'll plead guilty, because I am guilty, I did all of it. You've never known the half of what I am, what I've done, and I wish for your sake you'd never met me, because you deserve to have someone worth something to love." He stood up, took a single step closer to her, and made himself stare into her pale, aghast, tear-stained face and continue, doggedly, because for her own sake it was better that she understand everything. "I don't want you to come back here. I don't want to see you ever again. I want you to forget I ever existed. Do you understand now?"

The wide brown eyes stared back at him, mirrors for his own anguish. The fine fingers clawed at the glass.

_"Malcolm, no...!"_ she whimpered.

"Just _go!_" he said harshly. Then, because he couldn't bear to watch her leave for the last time, he swung around again and dropped back on to the bunk, where he brought his knees up again and dropped his forehead onto them. If wishing could have achieved anything, that sight would have been his last in this life.

Faintly he caught the sound of the outer door opening. There was a murmur of voices. Hers wasn't among them, but moments later footsteps left the outer chamber. The door closed again, and the quality of the silence told him he was alone again.

For good.

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	92. Divergence

"Thank you for coming here, Hoshi," said Captain Archer gently. "Sit down. Please." He indicated the chair at the other side of his desk. "We need to talk."

"Sir." She sat down, very precise and upright, like a little cat. She was very pale, but composed. Throughout her shift she'd been totally professional, never even looking at the man who'd retaken his forfeited place at the tactical station almost opposite her.

The captain joined his hands on the desk in front of him and studied them for a moment, trying to decide how much he could safely say. Discreet enquiries had suggested that the shadowy Section whose representative had pulled Malcolm's strings so successfully were really best left alone, and the less said about them the better. Nevertheless, although he gave Hoshi every credit for maintaining her always high level of professional conduct throughout what must have been an incredibly taxing time, he felt that she was owed some kind of explanation, and preferably as soon as possible.

How much damage had been done to the relationship between her and Malcolm, he didn't know. Still less could he guess how far any explanation would go towards repairing it. Knowing his tactical officer, he'd probably have committed the equivalent of hara-kiri, and magnified his own guilt so outrageously she'd only marvel he hadn't been put up against a wall and shot out of hand with one of his own phase rifles. That said, at the start of the affair the man's perfidy had seemed so incredible, so utterly and totally vile, that the option wouldn't have seemed at all an unreasonable one if it had only occurred to him.

"I guess you were ... surprised ... that I brought Malcolm back on to the Bridge," he said slowly. "I've done some investigating, and I've done some talking to him, and I'm satisfied that he's been punished enough for what he did."

She blinked several times.

"He said you were going to court-martial him. That he was guilty."

Archer paused before he answered. "He was placed in a very difficult position. I don't condone what he did, but I understand it. He did what seemed to him to be the right thing, believing it was going to cost him his career. I may question his judgment, but I can't question his courage."

"He betrayed Phlox." Her voice was taut, controlled, giving away nothing.

"I agree that's how it looks. But if it wasn't for him we wouldn't be heading to Qu'Vat right now. He had his reasons for what he did, Hoshi. I don't know what he said to you when you went to see him, but I want you to believe that he did the wrong things for all the right reasons."

"Do _you_ believe that?" she asked.

A faint smile softened his troubled frown. "I sure as hell wouldn't have let him out of the brig if I didn't."

There was a little silence.

"I've forbidden him to talk to you for a couple of days," the captain went on mildly. "I think both of you need time to think things through, to let everything settle down. Then maybe you can have a talk, see how things stand." Another small smile, this one touched with unhappiness. "Maybe you could talk things over with Trip while he's still here. You've always been able to rely on him."

"I thought I could rely on Malcolm." The bitterness and hurt broke through suddenly. "Now I'm not sure I ever knew him at all."

"I'm with you there." A grimace.

"Captain, how could he do this to us? To all of us? To _you? _I can't – I just can't understand it!" she burst out.

He stood up, walked around the desk and perched on the side of it in front of her. Her hands were clasped nervously in her lap, and he took hold of them comfortingly.

"Hoshi. What I'm going to tell you now is classified, and it must never go beyond this room. Understand?" She nodded, and he continued. "Malcolm worked in Covert Operations before he joined _Enterprise._ When he did what he did, it was on the orders of a man in that organization he trusted, who he'd answered to back then and who gave him reasons – good reasons – for playing ball with him now. He was told Phlox would be in no danger, and that doing what he was told would save thousands of lives. He wanted to tell me, to take me into his confidence, and he was forbidden to.

"That's the part I still have trouble with. He should have trusted me. He should have told me, no matter what. But I think he could have made it an awful lot harder for us to work out who the saboteur was if he'd wanted to. Hell, I think he did everything bar writing a confession. I think he felt he had to do what he did, but once it was done he couldn't live with himself."

"Covert Operations," she said slowly. "He was an undercover agent?"

"And a good one, apparently."

There was a long pause.

"I'd imagine – to be an undercover agent – a _good _undercover agent – you have to be really good at telling lies." She sounded as though she was talking to herself. "You have to be able to make anybody believe anything."

"You have to be able to do that when it's your job," he agreed gently. "But that doesn't mean that everything about you is a lie."

"But it could be." She looked up at him. "It could be, and nobody would ever know."

Archer nodded mutely. He wouldn't insult her intelligence by denying it.

Silence fell again.

"I don't know how I feel about him anymore," she said at last in a puzzled voice. "I don't know if I can trust him anymore. I don't even know what to say to him."

A sigh. "I can't help you with that, Hoshi. It wasn't easy for me either."

"But you didn't think you were in love with him." A bittersweet smile curved her mouth. "And that he was in love with you too."

"No, I'll give you that one." Dryly.

Hoshi stood up. "We'd better get back on to the Bridge, sir. A Klingon warship could arrive at any minute."

"But then I have a good man as a weapons officer. A man I believe I can trust – in spite of everything." He touched her cheek gently. "Take your time, Hoshi. You have a couple of days."

"Thank you for that, sir. I guess I'm going to need them. Or maybe more than that."

"As long as you need. I'll tell him to wait till you make the first move. I think he owes you that much."

"At least," she agreed wryly.

She preceded him up the stairs. As the door hissed open, the dark head bent over the tactical station lifted as though it was dragged up by force.

One glance. Then it dropped again. The fingers resumed their steady movement across the board, making calculations, changing the scan parameters, checking the weapons readiness. To all intents and purposes, he did not know she existed.

Captain Archer walked to his chair and sat in it. Nothing had changed in these few minutes; T'Pol would have informed him immediately. He watched his communications officer return to her station and settle down. Her face was the picture of calm composure as she began monitoring the channels.

The Bridge was back to normal. Apparently.

It just went to show.

You could _never_ rely on appearances.

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	93. Bound, Part 1: Malcolm

**Author's Note: This chapter has not been beta-read. Any mistakes are my own.**

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The Orion Syndicate.

I know as soon as that ship appears that there's trouble brewing. And when Captain Archer agrees to go over there in person to deal with this 'Harrad-Sar' who's in charge of it, the warning signals fire off in my mind like fireworks on November the Fifth.

I suppose I should be thankful that he agrees to take me and two MACOs along. Finally he appears to be absorbing some security sense – at least with the three of us along he ought to be reasonably safe. Though I leave orders with my deputy to keep the weapons aimed firmly towards the Orion ship's warp drive, and at the first sign of it powering up she'll bring them online and fire. I'm no keener on being a hostage than anyone else, and I wouldn't trust our charming 'host' as far as I could throw him.

At least this will give me some respite from being on the Bridge, and sitting opposite Hoshi. I remember thinking once that I was like Moses, condemned to see the Promised Land but never set foot on it. Now I'm more like Adam, cast out from Paradise by an angel with a flaming sword.

I didn't expect the captain to forgive me, let alone reinstate me. It isn't that I'm ungrateful – who wouldn't be, for such magnanimity? I expected to be thrown off the ship and ejected from Starfleet in short order, once I'd served whatever prison term the court martial found appropriate. To find myself back in my place, as though nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened, is so bewildering that sometimes when I wake up I have to touch the wall beside my bunk to assure myself that it's the familiar cool duranium. Though if nothing else, the tearing sense of emptiness and loss should tell me it's real enough...

In my darker moments I wonder if Captain Archer was truly being magnanimous when he reinstated me, or if there was a less amiable side to his actions. I hate myself for thinking it, because I know he's not that kind of man; whatever damage the Expanse did to him, I can't believe that however injured he is (and God forgive me, I saw in his face what I'd done to him), he'd be deliberately vindictive to a member of his crew. But I can't help thinking he must feel there's a bitter kind of justice in me being here every day, seated opposite the woman who used to love me. It's a worse punishment than any court martial could have handed down.

As for Hoshi? I don't blame her in the least. I never deserved her, and now I've lost her. I had to risk that when that bastard Harris contacted me and ordered me to betray my captain and my ship, all for some underhand game he's playing with the Klingon Empire. In hindsight I should have done differently; I should have gone to the captain and told him everything. But I didn't, and now I have to pay the price. Maybe I could bear it if I wasn't the only one, but despite the fact that she's doing her damnedest to keep up a hard front, I know her too well. The cosmetics she's using with such skill and determination don't fool me for a moment. Every morning I can see that she's been crying, and even despite the captain's orders to me to leave her to make the first move if she wants to, the only thing that stops me from leaping across the Bridge and trying to comfort her is the knowledge that the bastard who's done this to her is me. So the sight of her pain is added to mine, and magnifies it a thousand fold. Guilty and helpless, I can do nothing but try to lose myself in the daily duties of the Tactical Station. Duty. Once upon a time it was my God, then it was my downfall, and now it's my only anaesthesia. The irony of that could probably kill me, if I let myself dwell on it.

So it wasn't just the captain I betrayed. But at least my skills as a weapons and tactical officer will enable me to go on protecting the ship, and the crew who eye me askance now, and the woman whose heart I broke. And especially, right now, the captain; even if the friendship he offered me is history, and the absolute trust he had in me is shattered, I can still keep the faith in one respect. I'm glad of that at least. Though as we mount the transporter platform, en route to the Orion ship, I still have the deep suspicion that this sudden and unexpected gesture from Harrad-Sar is far from being the proffer of reconciliation it appears to be. It will pay me to be on my guard even more than usual over there. And at least, for just an hour or two, I'll be spared the sight of the woman I love, who can't even bear to look at me any more.


	94. Bound, Part 2: Hoshi

**Author's Note: With thanks to Jean!**

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Headache?

You're goddamn right I've got a headache, Phlox.

Every woman on this ship has a headache.

Three of them, to be precise.

There are times when I think every man I've ever known has his brains in his balls. Today is definitely one of those times.

The captain goes over to the Orion ship to talk, and what does he come back with? Three scantily-dressed, gorgeous slave women who now apparently 'belong' to him. That doesn't stop them giving the glad eye to every male on the ship, though, _in_cluding the Lieutenant Malcolm Reed who not so long ago asked me to marry him. Seems like he forgot that fast enough. Some security officer _he_ is, goggling at that woman's breasts like he's never seen a pair before. Jeez, if his tongue comes out any further he'll tread on it.

Okay. We haven't talked yet. I don't know what to say to him. I still haven't got things worked out in my own mind, and till I've got that done I sure don't want him messing with it. Even _after_ I've got it done I don't know what's going to happen when we talk. But one thing I sure as hell don't want is some other woman messing around with _him_.

I know we should be doing something about it. Fighting back! We're Starfleet's finest, yeah? We've fought Klingons and Suliban and Reptilians and Insectoids, we've been in worse places than this and survived. But somehow all I can feel is angry. I can't feel _purposeful. _I want to do something and I can't think what. We women are all like ants when the anthill's been kicked, wandering round ready to sting something if only we can find something to sting. We talk, but we don't act. Even Em confines herself to uttering strings of awful curses in mingled Spanish and Catalan. We watch the men making utter fools of themselves, and we don't do anything about it. And in the meantime, the three Trojan whores stroll around the ship in their exotic splendor, and the self-satisfied complacency oozes from them in a way that makes me want to commit murder, if only I could summon up the will.

I'm in my quarters, seething over the whole stupid goddamn situation and my complete inability to do anything about it. I open a drawer in my cabinet and take out the thing I've left there since that day I went down to the Brig and had my world torn apart. I haven't even looked at it since. Now the blueness glints at me, stunning me afresh with its beauty; the smooth burnished curve of metal it rests on is cold against my hand. I walk to the waste disposal chute and think about Malcolm, faithless to the captain, faithless to me, up there on the Bridge openly lusting after that Orion slut. Maybe he's had her already. Maybe it's only a matter of time. She's certainly sending out all the right messages in his direction, and hell, I don't know who he is anymore. I wonder if _he_ does. Maybe he's sitting in there behind that mask I found so intriguing, gloating at the way we all fell for it. Maybe he's still just a sleeper, who'll go back to lying low for however long, waiting for the next trigger.

I hold my hand out over the chute, fingers spread, palm upright, with the ring sitting in it. I will my wrist to turn. I want to watch that deep blue sparkle fall into oblivion. I want the decision to be made. I want the agony to be over and done with.

But it seems that my wrist has a mind of its own. My hand hovers still, and the only movement is a slight shake, whether of anger or grief or something else I have no idea. I can't make the decision, in this or in anything else.

Finally, with a violent movement, my wrist turns. But somehow my arm has jerked, and instead of falling down the chute the ring drops tinkling to the floor and runs in a little semi-circle round the stone with the pink lights waking in the heart of the blueness.

There are no decisions. No matter how much I want to act, the effort is beyond me.

I want to forget him. No, I want to _hate_ him. I want to ball my hands into fists and pound them into his face, to make him feel some tiny part of what I'm going through. When I look across the Bridge and see him sitting there looking like he hasn't a care in the world, even _smiling_ at that Orion whore, I could cheerfully shoot both of them with a Klingon disrupter and laugh.

I want not to care. I want to just watch him making an idiot of himself and feel nothing but scorn, except maybe relief for the narrow escape I had. The escape from marrying him, not knowing what he is – a traitor. No matter what Captain Archer's reasons were for reinstating him, I can't get over what he did.

How could he do it? How could he lie, and lie, the way he did? And what other lies are there, down under the surface where everything he couldn't trust me with is still hidden in the darkness I didn't suspect?

My own blindness shames me; I was a lovesick fool. In hindsight there were so many warning signs I didn't see. Maybe I didn't want to. Maybe that air of secrecy, of withdrawal, was too intriguing to resist. Maybe I'm as much to blame as he is – after all, I was the one who dived across that lift and kissed him. The memory of it makes me want to weep, but it's not as painful as those of all the nights in his arms, where I thought I was in love with the man of my dreams.

Dreams. Well, they turned into nightmares, and I can't wake from them, no matter how I try. Every morning I wake and find I've been crying in my sleep. I get through the days in a daze, hiding behind the façade of a comm officer who doesn't give a damn.

But I do. I don't want to, but I do.

I can't forget the way he loved me, the way he held me, the things he said to me. The way he made me feel like I was his world.

But Malcolm Reed is a liar. Convicted out of his own mouth.

I watched him sit there and lie to the captain about those weapons signatures, and I had no idea. How many other lies has he uttered? When we were together, in our most intimate moments, was he lying then? Was I just a convenient piece of tail? A trophy? What?

Would he ever have told me the truth? Or if I'd married him, would I have gone on forever in the blissful ignorance I've been in up till now?

I want to ask him. I want to tie him down in the captain's chair and inject him with every damned chemical in Sickbay until he talks. Until he tells me the truth – all of it, without any concealment, in a form I can believe. But hell, that's just another dream. In the unlikely event I actually got him tied down anywhere, at a guess he'd just have to look at me with those mesmerizing eyes and I'd just fall for it all over again. Believe every word. Every word fed me by a liar.

So. It's another day, and another chamber of hell, and so help me if that woman leans one centimeter closer to him next time I'm going to fly across the Bridge and batter her. If I can summon up the will.

In the meantime, I just sit in my quarters, staring blankly at the ring.

There are no decisions.

The agony will go on.

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	95. In A Mirror, Darkly: Part 1

**Author's Note: Warning: This chapter includes non-graphic material adult material including non-con. It should attract a K+/ possibly T rating. If you are likely to be offended by such material please do not read it.**

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Life had taught Major Reed a quite astonishing number of expletives. He'd aimed most of them at Phlox as the Denobulan blithely operated the controls of the Agony Booth with him inside it – in the intervals between screaming, of course, as he acquired first-hand experience of how extremely effective the device was at creating what it was named for.

At some level of his brain he didn't blame Phlox at all. Orders were orders, and Captain Forrest had retaken control of the ship. Archer had endured ten hours in the Booth, and how he'd achieved that without going insane Reed didn't know. He himself had reached a limit at eight; the machine's readings had told the doctor that the patient's biosigns were about to go critical, and Phlox certainly wasn't going to take the responsibility for killing him. If he thought the treatment he'd administered afterwards to stabilise his condition was going to buy forgiveness, however, he would one day discover his error. The major's personal experience of the machine had suggested several ways in which it could actually be improved, and when that had been done to his satisfaction, Reed knew exactly who was going to be the first test subject, orders or no orders. As the Head of Security, he could always find or invent a reason to inflict suffering on someone. Quite often he didn't even bother with having a reason at all.

However, although the treatment had gone a long way towards bringing him back to what could be termed 'operational capacity', his exhausted muscles simply had to rest. There was no short cut for that, and therefore he was back in his quarters when he ought to have been on the Bridge, keeping an eye on what was happening. The necessity was infuriating, and unease did not sweeten his temper. With the situation between Forrest and Archer on a knife edge the way it was, he did not trust anyone else to do what he was supposed to do – back the candidate whom he personally believed was going to win in the end.

Archer.

He turned over gingerly on his bunk, still aware of a multitude of aches from the incredible stress of being held rigid for hours on end by the sheer, unbelievable pain. As far as that went, he was impressed – and given life on board ship, there had always been the chance he might end up as one of its victims for some infringement or other. At least he was still alive, which was a bonus; the captain must have been in a singularly good mood at the time. There were a number of even less pleasant alternatives, most of which were terminal. Phlox, for instance, had an ongoing vivisection project that was always open to volunteers. Well – victims. He liked to refer to them as 'volunteers', but then the Denobulan had a strange sense of humour at the best of times.

Lying still was allowing him too much time to worry. Sleep was not an option. He considered sending for one of his female MACO crew, but wasn't sure he'd be up to the exertion; too many of them were eager to step into his shoes, and the combination of having sex with a woman _and_ watching for her to make a move at killing him seemed just a tad too much of an ask right now. Most times it just added to the fun. One or two had actually made the attempt. Needless to say they hadn't succeeded, and even more needless to say they hadn't lived to repeat it.

So it seemed an idea to find something to take his mind off his predicament. He wasn't in the mood for reading, and he was fully up to date with all the supposedly secret traffic on the ship's communications network. He could always take a walk down to Engineering and bait that scarred oaf in charge of it, but right now he wasn't feeling at his venomous best. Tucker would just have to wait.

So. Find something else he wasn't supposed to have access to. That's what the Head of Security did, or he wouldn't be head of it for long. The problem was, he couldn't think of anything he hadn't already broken into, be it confidential files or crew's terrors.

_Getting too damned good at your job, Reed,_ he thought.

At that moment the door chime sounded.

His eyebrows rose. His having unexpected callers was virtually unheard-of. Most people who valued their skins intact made every effort to avoid the slightest unnecessary contact with him. This arrangement suited everybody, since the methods by which he could be assassinated when he was alone had already been covered by security protocols he'd installed himself. (There was always, of course, the chance that somebody would come up with something so fiendishly ingenious he hadn't thought of it first, but if that happened he'd be the first to know, and indignation probably wouldn't be his overriding reaction. Assuming, of course, it was something that allowed him time to have any reactions at all, which would be a _big _mistake on his assassin's part.)

There was no part of his cabin that didn't have a loaded weapon concealed within arm's reach. Here in his bunk he only had to choose which to draw out of hiding. The Klingon disrupter was probably his favourite, mainly because its results were so extremely spectacular. People who'd seen it in action tended to be more careful thereafter not to tempt fate and draw its attention.

The disrupter slid smoothly into his hand. Checking the power cell was unnecessary; he _never _allowed any weapon to lose charge.

"Come," he called.

The door hissed open, and his eyebrows rose even further.

"Lieutenant Sato." He even allowed the surprise to show in his voice. To reveal the instant suspicion he also felt would not be tactful. Sato was currently warming the captain's bed, and would therefore not be coming here tonight to make kind enquiries after his health.

"Major." She stood just inside the door. Her eyes measured him. "I believe you've had a pretty uncomfortable day."

"It wasn't the best I can remember."

Taking no apparent notice of the disrupter he was making no effort to hide, she sauntered forward. He had time to admire the sway of her hips. There was no doubt about it, she was as sinuous as a snake.

And about as trustworthy as one too, he reminded himself. She'd transferred herself from Archer's bed to Forrest's with lightning speed as soon as the power shifted, and doubtless would do so again if necessary. He wondered irrelevantly if she actually felt anything for either man. Probably not, at a guess.

Without invitation, she sat down on the bunk beside him.

"You've left clear indications that you've come here," he said bluntly. It wasn't a question and she didn't respond to it as one.

"Of course. And if I don't get back to my station at the start of the next shift, well ... the captain may start asking some awkward questions." She smiled at him. Or rather, she bared her perfect, pearly teeth. A grin from a great white shark would have had more warmth and charm.

"Well, I'm honoured I'm sure." Sarcasm dripped from every word. "Now perhaps you'll tell me to what I owe the pleasure."

He'd decided long ago that he was past astonishment. However, he came perilously close to it when she leaned forward and kissed him passionately. It was probably just as well that the trigger on the disrupter was – comparatively – heavy. He came damnably close to firing it in reflex.

He had no idea what would happen to someone in physical contact with a person who'd been shot with a disrupter. At a guess, it wouldn't be pleasant, and since this time it was him he didn't really want to find out.

Thoughts spun through his mind as her tongue invaded his mouth. Primarily he was wondering what the hell _this_ was all in aid of. Secondarily he was reviewing who could possibly have bribed access to the security recordings. Thirdly he was wondering whether it was he or, indirectly, Commander Archer who was the target for what could only be some clumsy trap. The reflection that she was a hot kisser and he wanted more was quite a long way down the list, but he was still conscious of the instant surge of lust in response.

With the free hand he could use without risking transforming anyone very painfully into a cloud of atoms he pushed her away – hard.

"Now tell me who put you up to that," he snarled.

"What makes you think anyone did?" she parried.

He could do a pretty fair impersonation of a great white himself, when he had occasion to. "I know you, Lieutenant. You haven't been exactly subtle, after all."

"A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do." The gleam mocked him. "And I do it so well."

That wasn't news. His access to the security recordings had given him ample opportunity to admire her technique. He'd occasionally wondered if Forrest ever went to Phlox to get something to save him from heart failure; he wasn't as young as he used to be, and Sato's stamina was quite remarkable.

"I'm sure. But how come I'm suddenly the favoured recipient?" He leaned backwards on the bunk and surveyed her narrowly. "A bit of a come-down for you, isn't it? A mere lowly Major? Let me guess. You've been secretly in love with me ever since you came on board, and you've decided life's too short for you not to confess your undying passion."

"And they say the English have no sense of humor." With a slow, seductive smile she took hold of the zip tag of her uniform top and slid it down.

The shirt beneath it had three buttons. She unfastened them without haste, while he watched, dry-throated, waiting for the trick, the trap. His body evidently wasn't too tired to react. Another sultry smile told him her peripheral vision had picked up the sudden hardening in his groin. Seeing her strip on a vid-recording, seeing her in other men's beds, was a quite different thing from seeing her in his own.

"Archer isn't going to succeed, you know," she breathed as the shirt fell undone. "He's a loose cannon. As soon as he gets a sniff of power it'll go to his head."

"I wouldn't know." _And if you think I'm going to comment on whatever I think of the situation you're so stupid I can't imagine how you got one rank bar on your shoulders, let alone two. Unless you were shagging the entire promotions board at the time. _He watched as she slithered on to her knees on the bunk. The movement gave him a delectable glimpse of her breasts – not a coincidence, of course; she was far too acute for that.

"Are you going to just lie there and look?" She straightened up. God, she knew how to pose, he'd give her that. Nevertheless his brain was still on the hunt for an explanation, and until he had one she could just bloody sit there.

"Why not? It's a nicer view than the bulkhead." He gave her a feral smile. "But please, don't feel you have to stop. I was just enjoying it."

"I'm sure we could come to some arrangement." Her hand ran lightly up his thigh.

"The key word in that sentence was 'arrangement'." Involuntarily his body jerked, but then his free hand shot out with terrifying speed and seized her wrist. "As flattered as I am, Lieutenant, that doesn't make me a fool. Nothing in this life comes for free. You tell me the price and then we'll discuss a trade."

"We're en route to Tholian space. Archer's got control of the ship, for now," she purred. "But Captain Forrest's wondering if you might be thinking by now you've backed the wrong horse."

"Ah. And you're by way of being a down-payment." Grim amusement flickered across his face as the pieces finally fell into place. "I thought you said the Commander wouldn't succeed."

"He might succeed in getting us all killed." She even managed to make a frown look sexy. "Just think about it, Major. If – by any chance – there _is _a ship there, they aren't going to just let us take it. _Enterprise_ hasn't got the capability to take on the Tholians. He's banking on the cloaking device, but with spies on board, what if something goes wrong?"

"And if it doesn't, and we manage to get hold of it, he'll be in a position to scare the crap out of everyone, up to and including the Emperor." He didn't give her an instant's warning. Before she could move, he was kneeling in front of her, and his hands had both her wrists trapped in the small of her back. "Life's a gamble, Lieutenant, and I don't cash my chips till the play's over. But since you've given me such a delightful opportunity, I'd be less than a gentleman if I refused."

He felt her tense to struggle, and clamped down painfully on her wrists to keep her still. "No, that really wouldn't be good idea. Just be a good little girl and I'll let you off with a warning."

"You wouldn't dare." She spoke through clenched teeth.

"The security recordings will show you made the move, Lieutenant. Play and pay."

He used his grip on her arms to pull her against him and began nuzzling into the angle of her neck, nipping gently at the soft skin. She was so damned alluring that it was going to take all his self-control to let her off with the warning he'd promised; another day he might not have stopped at a warning, but he'd already decided his physical state wasn't good enough to take risks. Still, who knew? This might be _his _down-payment. The balance to be collected when Archer was in command and in a position to hand out rewards. If they succeeded in hijacking that ship and plundering its secrets, the Commander would have women eating out of his hands. Lieutenant Hoshi Sato would be reduced to an also-ran, an asset that could be safely distributed to one of those who'd earned a place in the new administration.

At least as a start.

His mouth strayed downwards. He took hold of the shirt's edges with his teeth and dragged it off her shoulders before leaning back and surveying her with half-closed eyes.

"Beautiful," he said softly.

"Bastard." She was quivering with anger – and perhaps more than anger; her mouth was flushed and inviting, and the body now displayed for his delectation was even more exquisite in reality than it had been on so many hours of security recordings. But for those hours in the Agony Booth he might have been in a position to find out to the full exactly what talents had made her so indispensable in the beds of two rivals for the captaincy. As it was, he was still going to enjoy himself.

And he did.

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	96. In A Mirror, Darkly: Part 2

**Author's Note: Warning: This chapter includes non-graphic adult material. It should attract a K+/ possibly T rating. If you are likely to be offended by such material please do not read it.**

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Curiosity was not, generally speaking, a survival trait in the Empire.

You obeyed orders if you wanted to go on living, especially if you were serving aboard a warship. And if you were a woman, you slept with whoever you had to.

If you were the captain's woman, and there were doubts about who exactly was going to end up _being_ the captain, then life got a little complicated. Fortunately, Captain Forrest had seemed to harbor some affection for her (not enough to rely on, but enough to make him somewhat ... open to persuasion); whereas Commander – now Captain – Archer was an ego-maniac so thirsty for the recognition he felt he'd been denied that he'd take it from pretty well any source. Well, as long as that particular source had a beautiful body and was good in the sack. Which was one of the reasons she'd got her lieutenant's stripes, though it had helped that she was good at arranging for one or two of the competition to be quietly assassinated too.

Right now the situation had straightened itself out. Forrest had unfortunately died, trapped in his ship in the Tholians' web-shaped energy field. She'd felt vaguely sorry when it happened, but it made life more straightforward insofar as she knew who'd be humping her from now on. Now the survivors from _Enterprise_ were aboard the _Defiant_, and attempting to deal with the most pressing of the remaining problems – a saboteur, hiding somewhere in the vast maze of corridors and access tubes and crawl-ways that made up this huge, complex vessel.

She was naturally interested in the interrogation of one of the hapless slaves who'd been part of the cargo that had been stolen along with the ship itself. Any display of power acted on her as an aphrodisiac, and as she sat in the captain's quarters watching the feed from the briefing room, she had leisure to admire Sergeant Mayweather's powerfully built frame and the cool, calculating way he delivered one brutal blow after another into the body and face of the whining slave who was unwisely trying to resist Archer's interrogation.

"Not very scientific. But effective."

The voice made her jump slightly. She'd allowed herself to become so enthralled by the action on the screen that she'd missed the sound of the door swishing open in the next room. And that kind of carelessness on an Imperial warship could easily be your last.

Reed was standing in the doorway. Leaning in it actually, arms crossed and an expression of mild disdain as he surveyed the viewscreen.

Red suited his dark coloring, she thought. And it wouldn't show blood so much, and given his proclivities that would come in handy. Though his specialty really lay more in getting inside his victims' heads and destroying them from there.

"I'm surprised you're not in charge of the interrogation," she replied, wondering what he was here for. And remembering what had happened last time he and she had been alone in a room together. Unfinished business, you might call it.

"That kind of technique doesn't need a specialist," he said scornfully. "Whereas you, on the other hand..."

She eyed him. A certain amount of trepidation accompanied the thought that few people in the Empire were better at weighing up the smallest physiological changes, and that watching Mayweather at work had been ... well ... stimulating.

And it appeared that Captain Archer would be occupied for some time with the interrogation.

"It seems you picked the right side after all, Major," she said sweetly.

"It seems so, Lieutenant."

He was intelligent. And dangerous. Far more of either than Archer, who was pitifully easy to manipulate if you knew which strings to pull. Though there was always an element of risk in manipulating anyone who had that kind of instability; there was always a chance that the captain would perceive some unintended slight and lash out in childish, dangerous rage.

Reed _had _no strings. Except, perhaps, an unexpected one called loyalty that for some mysterious reason attached him to Archer – and that one, perhaps, would someday form the noose that snapped his neck...

No strings. But he hadn't come here to discuss the weather. And if he wanted to watch the interrogation, there were display screens on the Bridge.

It never hurt to have as many irons in the fire as possible. And it appeared that his loyalty had limits, at least when it came to picking up an invitation she was at pains to extend by once more unzipping her standard Regulation top in front of him. The thought did occur to her that he was serving two aims – finishing what he'd started back in his quarters that day, and testing just how loyal she was to the captain.

Well, hell. Loyalty? To _Archer? _In the Empire, you were loyal to yourself. And just for once, she felt like giving way to impulse.

The _Defiant_ uniform came off far more quickly and easily than his old MACO outfit would have done. She, of course, had plenty of practice in shedding her uniform quickly and efficiently when the occasion demanded. During the course of getting out of it now her fingertips brushed against the slender little knife in its sheath stitched into the back seam, but at present that didn't figure in her plans. For one thing, he'd be ready for it, and she wanted to survive what was going to happen next.

The time they had would probably be limited. He didn't bother with much by way of preliminaries, not that she needed it. His body was hard and smooth and muscular, slimmer and more compact than Archer's. Fleetingly she wondered whether he'd kill her afterwards anyway, but decided the risk was worth it.

Apart from wanting to get his interest, just in case his ambition went anywhere sometime in the future, hell, she was horny just looking at him.

Soon she was gasping. And it wasn't mostly for effect, like it was for Archer, who'd make a bull in a rodeo look subtle. Shortly after that the gasps weren't for effect at all.

_Oh – Oh God – yes – _

"T'Pol to Major Reed." The intercom on the desk squawked. "Bring another prisoner to the Briefing Room."

"Acknowledged." Give him his due, he didn't even sound out of breath. Which was really quite an achievement, considering the position he was in and what he'd been doing right up till that point.

The faint click of the channel closing unleashed hell. He naturally wouldn't want to be delayed in bringing another victim for Travis's fists to demolish, but on the other hand he clearly disliked leaving unfinished business behind him. She could approve of that, insofar as the next two minutes left her able to think about anything but what was happening in her groin as he emphatically finished the business that had brought him here.

She watched him pull his uniform back on. He was still utterly in command of himself, still alert and dangerous. The skills of such a man were wasted on a fool like Archer. Very much as hers were too, in fact.

Life was full of possibilities. Some were admittedly more remote than others, and some were downright risky, but that was life in the Empire. A pity; that one odd flaw in the man would probably render him surplus to requirements if and when her plans came to fruition. Although from what she'd just seen of Mayweather's physique, she wouldn't go entirely without consolation if that happened.

He paused in the doorway just before he left. She thought for a moment he was going to speak, but he just looked at her with those narrow, intense gray eyes.

Their gazes locked. For just a moment they shared something; something that might have been regret, if time and place and the world had been different.

Then he was gone, and she slipped into the shower. She'd need to clean up quickly before she put her uniform back on. To go by the way the prisoner on the screen was whimpering now, the one Reed had gone to fetch would be unnecessary. She was supposed to have slipped off the Bridge to get something to eat and drink, and if she didn't get back to it soon and Archer found her missing it would be another excuse for him to throw a hissy fit. Really, the sooner her plans could be implemented, the better.

But just for now ... they weren't quite ready.

She still hadn't found the right opportunity to introduce herself informally to Sergeant Mayweather. In her experience, handing out a beating often left a man keen to prove his virility in ... other ways. Yes. In the Mess this evening she just might drop by his table for a friendly word.

Because only a fool dwelt on 'maybes' and 'might have beens.'

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	97. Demons

The transporter still wasn't his favourite mode of transport, but it had the one advantage of stealth. An undercover operative uses whatever tools will get the job done, but as he stepped off _Enterprise_'s transporter pad Malcolm Reed shuddered slightly with a dislike for the process he couldn't overcome, however often he used it.

He had to change out of these clothes, and as soon as possible – not just because he should be in uniform back on the ship, but because proximity to Harris now made him feel physically sick. The contact from his old boss had ruined his life, at least in one respect. Hoshi still hadn't spoken to him, except on matters that pertained to their working relationship. He didn't know if or when she ever would. He felt again the corrosive loneliness that had comprised his existence when he first came on board, except then he hadn't even understood what it was. Now he did. Not that it improved anything, knowing.

The captain would want whatever information he'd been able to extract as a matter of urgency, but even there he suspected it was wise to get changed first. The shadow still lay between himself and his commanding officer too, to a lesser extent – not a surprise at all. It wouldn't be exactly tactful to show up in the Ready Room in the working clothes of his former occupation.

Strange, he mused, as he made his way to his quarters. Even on board ship, dressed this way he found it difficult to revert to his real identity as a ship's officer. Perhaps it was because he had been in Covert Ops for so many years, and some of them had had a profound influence on his character. He found himself, however absurdly, weighing up the ways in which he could escape from any particular area, and slowing up whenever he heard footsteps along an intersecting corridor so that whoever might be approaching could pass without seeing him.

He reached his room and, still in that odd, wary frame of mind, checked that the corridor was empty before he thumbed the door control.

His first thought was that he should have changed the access code. Why hadn't he?

_Because you were a fool who couldn't let go of a dream_, sneered the inner self who'd been gloating over his well-earned downfall. _Well, you've been expecting this. Just try to keep some bloody dignity, will you? At least till she's got it over and done with, and dumped you._

She was perched on the edge of his bunk. Shards of blue light refracted off the thing she held between her fingers.

He'd been hoping against hope that she'd just throw it away. To have her hand it back to him would be agony, but he'd accept it quietly, like a gentleman. At some point over the next day or so he'd find time for a little target practice, and nobody but he would ever know. Just by itself it would probably be too tiny for the targeting sensors to get a lock on, but he could put it in a box, along with a few dreams to be vaporised along with it.

He wanted to say something, but couldn't. He stood mute, awaiting sentence and execution.

After what seemed like several hours she looked up at him.

"This is so ... difficult," she said at last. "Malcolm, I've tried to get over you. Over who I ... who I thought you were. Now everything's changed, and I haven't any maps. And I don't know what to do for the best. And I don't know who you are."

"Whoever I am still loves you," he said through a dry throat. "But I don't know if that's enough."

She pointed to the chair by the desk, and he sat down.

"Covert Operations," she said in a low voice. "Tell me. Please. The truth."

"I can't." He saw her flinch, and winced himself. "Not the details. A lot of it was ... classified. Sounds glamorous, doesn't it? But it's not. Dirty, dangerous sometimes, boring a lot of the time ... it wasn't something I deliberately set out to take up as a career. Things happened." He was silent for a moment. As he'd told the captain, he'd been young, eager for excitement. It hadn't been until later – much later – that he'd begun to understand the true cost, and to know that for him, it was too high. "And when you're in, it's hard to get out. '_Facilis descensus Averno__; sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras, hoc opus, hic labor est_.'" 'Easy is the descent into Hell; but to retrace your steps and escape to the heavens, this is a task, this is work.' Even if she hadn't studied Virgil, she'd understand the Latin.

"Did the captain know?"

"No. It fell under the blanket heading of 'Security Operations'. In all honesty I was surprised they let me go as easily as they did. I suppose that was me being naïve." He smiled bitterly. "They weren't letting me go at all. They were just putting me where I'd be useful if they needed me. They turned me into a 'sleeper', and I didn't even realise it."

"But why didn't you tell anyone?" she cried. "Why did you just let them use you?"

"Hoshi. You'll never know how much I wanted to." He leaned forward, trying desperately to make her understand. "They told me that I'd be saving hundreds of thousands of lives, and that Phlox wouldn't be in any danger. That speaking out would spoil everything. I had to make the call, had to decide what to do for the best. They'd never let me down before, and there were times when I'd had to rely on their information for my life. I didn't know – I just had to trust them."

"Instead of trusting the captain."

"I know. God only knows how much I've regretted it, how I've wished I could turn back time and do things differently! But I've made that one mistake. I swear to you now, as I've sworn to the captain, I'll never make another."

"So you're over with them for good?" Her gaze roamed dubiously over the black leather jacket, the anonymous dark trousers and shirt, the slightly dishevelled hair.

The temptation to take refuge in lies tugged at him again, and with an actual physical shake of the head he threw it off.

"That's what I've been down to Earth for. To talk to my old boss – on the captain's orders, to see if we can find anything out from them about this Terra Prime organisation. He wouldn't talk to me for nothing; he said the price was my coming 'back in the game'. But I'll tell that to the captain at once, when I report to him. And if I get any more 'instructions', Captain Archer will be the first to know about it. And what I do about them will depend on him." He glanced at her. "If you doubt me, I'll ask for permission for you to be present when I make my report. There's nothing in it you shouldn't hear."

She looked down at the ring in her hand.

"Being – in Covert Operations – I suppose it meant that you had to be good at pretending."

"You wouldn't get far if you didn't have a certain degree of ability for it," he said wryly. Then he caught her drift, and paled with horror. "Hoshi, no. Don't even think that! What we had – none of it was a pretence, not one damned word of it. When I came on to _Enterprise_ I wanted to leave all the dishonesty behind, to forget it had ever happened. I wanted to do a job I could take pride in instead of being ashamed of. I didn't want you – soiled by what I'd been, when it was all in the past."

"Except that it wasn't."

"No." He sighed. "I suppose none of us can ever really escape the things that made us who we are."

There was a little silence. How could she have faith in him now? Why should she even try? He'd just practically admitted that he could never be truly free of his past - the past that had made him into a traitor and a liar.

Recognising that fact, he lifted his head from a contemplation of the floor, and spoke again. "I suppose what it boils down to is whether you believe me. And considering that I've proved to you and the captain that I'm a damned liar, I'm guessing the answer will be 'no'."

Her eyes fastened on his, and they were enormous. "Malcolm, did you ever lie to me?"

"No. Except by omission, and that was to keep you safe. Everything I ever said to you was the truth. I would never lie to you, Hoshi. Not once. Not ever! And especially not when I told you I loved you." He put all the passionate sincerity of which he was capable into the words. "If you ... if you feel you can't trust me, if you can't believe in me any more, I'll understand absolutely. Perhaps we can still be –" the word stuck in his throat – "friends."

"'_Friends_'?" she echoed. "Malcolm Reed, I didn't come here to decide whether we were going to be 'friends'! I have all the friends I need, thanks. What I want is the man I fell in love with."

"He's still here, Hoshi." His hands gripped the desk so hard his knuckles gleamed white, to stop himself jumping up and launching himself at her. "I haven't changed. You just know more about me. And I'd still die for you."

She bit her lip, and held her hand out with the ring in it. A tremulous smile played on her mouth. "I guess anything worth having's worth taking a risk for. If you still want to ..."

He dropped to one knee in front of her.

"I swear, never as long as I live will I tell you anything but the truth." He took the ring, kissed it and slid it gently back on to her finger. "And I love you, Hoshi Sato. More than you'll ever know."

She leaned down, and their lips met.

It was at this precise moment that the comm sounded. "Archer to Lieutenant Reed, report."

Mouthing unheard curses, Malcolm scrambled to his feet. "Reed here, Captain."

"I'll be in the Ready Room in five for your report. Meet me there unless there's a problem at your end."

"Roger that, sir." With a roll of his eyes, he began stripping off his clothes; a process that Hoshi watched appreciatively, at least up till the point where he scrambled into his Starfleet uniform, when she pretended to be disappointed.

"I've missed you so much," he said, kissing her again as she stood up and fastened the top button of his shirt while he pulled up the coverall zip. "Any chance of a date later on?"

"Oh, I might find the time." That teasing look - the one he'd been so afraid he'd never see again.

"I'll make it worth your while if you do." He put his arms around her and kissed her a third time, lingeringly, just to give her an idea of how worthwhile it would be.

"Uh-oh. Dispose of the evidence." When they finally parted she whisked a paper tissue out of the box on the table and wiped her lipstick off his mouth; he was thankful she'd noticed, as the captain wouldn't approve of that if he saw it, not when they were both supposed to be on duty.

"Good thought. I don't want rumours about me flying around the ship," he grinned.

"Only the ones I actually start." With a demure smile she pressed the door control. "Now we'd better get to the Bridge. My break finished two minutes ago, and Captain Archer won't thank you for keeping him waiting."

"No." He checked the coast was clear, and they both emerged into an empty corridor. Practice had perfected the separation from their personal to their professional selves, and it happened now almost without thought. "Let's hope we get some concrete leads on this business soon. For Trip and T'Pol's sake."

"You didn't find anything?"

"Hints, really. But they might be somewhere to start." He sighed. "A baby. Now that complicates everything."

"We must find her!"

"'Her'?"

"Trip talked to Phlox. It's a little girl."

"My God. They must be worrying their wits out." They reached the turbo-lift, and he pressed the call button. "I'd like to say things could be worse, but I'm not sure how they could be."

"We will find her. We have to."

"We'll do our best, love." Still not quite daring to believe he could, he slid his arm around her waist as they got into the lift; they were alone in it, and he couldn't prevent himself from slipping back into intimacy just for a moment, purely from the giddy relief that she'd forgiven him. "Trip as a daddy, eh? I'd have thought one scare would have taught him a lesson."

"It's not funny," she reproved him.

"No, it isn't," he said contritely. When he'd finally discovered the details of what had really happened to Trip aboard the Xyrillian ship, he'd gone to make emphatic representations to the captain that they should once again set off in pursuit of the aliens, this time to prefer charges of sexual assault and rape; and only when convinced that they didn't stand a chance of finding them, and that Trip wouldn't co-operate even if they did, had he desisted. "But it's amazing how these things always happen to him."

"Be thankful they don't happen to you instead."

"You never know. When we do get around to asking the captain to tie the knot for us, it may be my turn to be the daddy." He smiled at the thought, but banished it quickly. That was for in the future. Right now they had a job to do, and it probably wouldn't be an easy one.

The doors hissed open on to the Bridge. Decorously, Hoshi walked across to her station. There was no sign of T'Pol or Trip; at a guess they were with the captain in the Ready Room, waiting for whatever information he might have been able to glean from Harris. At that moment he wished he had more to bring them, but scanty as it was, it was still better than nothing.

A little baby girl, in the hands of lunatic terrorists like Terra Prime. He couldn't be sure how T'Pol would have reacted to the news, but he knew exactly what it would have done to Trip. He'd be tearing his heart out with worry till he could see for himself that the baby was safe and well, till he could hold her and protect her. Hoshi was right. They _had_ to find her.

And pretty damn soon, at that.

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	98. Terra Prime

"Hoshi! You're a sight for sore eyes." Malcolm started to sit up, but stopped, wincing.

"You shouldn't be trying to get up yet." Hoshi pressed him gently back down onto the bunk, careful not to touch the area under the bandages. "As a matter of fact, I'm surprised Phlox let you out of Sickbay so soon."

"Phlox has far more important things to think of right now. He didn't need me under his feet." He submitted, but with rather ill grace. "I can't just lie around here, sweetheart. I've got things to do on board ship. I've got a bloody saboteur to track down, and I know where to start."

"You were shot a couple of hours ago," she reminded him. "You have to take it easy."

"'I'll take it easy' when whoever it is is in the brig and facing a court martial. Till then, the whole ship could be in danger. You included." He took hold of her hand and kissed it, but went on seriously, "Hoshi, we just don't know how far these people are prepared to go. As far as it takes, at a guess – I've got to check the shuttle over with Travis shortly, because that developed two malfunctions simultaneously for some reason and something like that doesn't 'just happen'. I'm the Security Officer, I'm responsible for the ship's safety. Whoever the saboteur is, he got past my guard when I was checking the personnel files, so his affiliation must have been bloody well hidden. But as soon as a terrorist strikes, he's out in the open. I'll find him. And when I do..." The unknown Terra Prime sympathiser would have reason to be very sorry indeed when that happened, he promised himself grimly.

"I've brought you a cup of tea and a sandwich." She pointed unnecessarily to the tray she'd brought in. "I can't stay long, but I thought you might feel peckish."

"I'm not really hungry, but I'd be glad of the tea. You shouldn't be waiting on me, though." He sat up again, more cautiously than the previous attempt. "Any news on the baby?"

"They're with her in Sickbay. I didn't like to butt in and ask."

"Well, if anyone can help her it's Phlox." He remembered seeing, through a haze of pain, T'Pol carrying a bundle that must be little Elizabeth out of the control room, with Trip hovering protectively at her shoulder. He hadn't seen much more than that; he'd been transported up to the ship for treatment to the plasma burn to his chest, but that method of transport had been deemed too risky for Elizabeth, tiny and frail. Shuttlepod 2 had been sent down to carry her up for treatment, and ever since then a pall of anxiety had hung over the ship while everyone waited for news.

Hoshi handed him the mug of tea, and he sipped at the contents appreciatively. "'The cup that cheers but does not inebriate,'" he quoted.

"Cowper," she said, smiling. "Not my favourite poet."

"Nor mine, but he had the right idea about tea." He set the mug down. "Hoshi, I want to ask you something."

The sudden seriousness of his tone made her look a little anxious, but he went on quickly. "No, it's nothing to worry about. I want to know what you think about asking the captain to marry us. As soon as it can be arranged."

It obviously wasn't a question she'd been expecting.

"What put that idea into your head?" she asked at last, plainly curious and – he hoped – intrigued.

"Oh, I don't know. But getting shot sort of focuses your thoughts a bit. It's too easy to put things that matter off – to say, well, we'll do it when the time's right. And then five minutes later a plasma bolt on a different setting cancels everything. I don't want to die with regrets. And not marrying you would be the worst I could have."

"We'd probably have to leave _Enterprise._"

He shrugged slightly, then winced again. The treatment for the plasma burn had been effective, but the wound still had to heal in its own time. "If it's a choice between _Enterprise_ and you, there is no choice."

She smiled and kissed him. "I'd love to."

"That's settled, then. As soon as we've got this Terra Prime business sorted out, you and I make an appointment to talk to Captain Archer. And I'll ask Trip to be my best man, but only on condition he doesn't wear one of those godawful shirts of his." He deliberately kept the tone light, trying not to let her think about what Trip must be going through right now, though his own heart was heavy with anxiety for the little family down in Sickbay and he knew hers would be the same.

"Oh, it wouldn't be the same without one of Trip's shirts." She blinked a few times, but played along.

"It wouldn't be the same as what?" he asked caustically. "An explosion in a paint factory?"

"You know you love them really. And I love you even when you're being grumpy."

"I like to think of it less as 'grumpy' than as 'having a basic standard of aesthetic appreciation'," he growled.

"You're doing it again," she pointed out happily.

He grunted, chuckled, and reached out to hold her hand. "At least if you love me when I'm grumpy you love me a lot of the time."

"Almost all of it, actually."

"Get out of here, woman, before I drag you in with me and start applying some discipline for failure to respect a senior officer."

"Oh, I'm _so_ worried. You with your chest all bandaged up."

"It won't be bandaged for ever. And I have a _very _long memory."

"Don't worry. If you forget I'll remind you."

"Tart."

"Oh, like you don't like me that way!"

"It was meant in a spirit of pure appreciation." He kissed her. "Now go away and let me recuperate for an hour, and then tell Travis to come down."

"And you call _me_ a tart!" she said mock-indignantly. "Anyway I don't think you're his type. Besides, you'd have to fight Gannet for him, and it'd be so embarrassing if you lost."

"Hoshi Sato, when this bandage comes off you are going to get spanked!"

"If that's a promise I'll go fetch a pair of scissors."

"Vixen. I'm too sore to do you justice yet. You'll just have to wait."

"Until you've had your wicked way with Travis. I know!" She walked to the door, grinned at him, and departed.

He lay back on the pillows. Was he really and truly contemplating marriage with that sense of humour?

Yep. To quote one Commander 'Trip' Tucker. He sure was.

And he couldn't _wait._

**_The End._**

* * *

**And that is the end, and tea and cakes for everyone who's stayed with me! You deserve it!**


End file.
